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CALAYNOS: 


A   TRAGEDY. 


GEORGE    H.    BOKER 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED   BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO. 

1848. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  BOKER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


PROLOGUE. 

Look  not,  grave  critic,  for  perfection  here, 
No  gods  and  goddesses  shall  move  your  ear, 
My  little  stage  mere  men  and  women  Jill, 
All  have  some  good  to  love,  to  hate  some  ill  ; 
A  hundred  springs  of  action  move  each  mind, 
And  in  their  mean  the  character  you'll  find. 
Interests  and  feelings,  base  and  good,  have  they  ; 
Some  draw  towards  heaven,  and  some — the  other  way. 
Arcadian  virtue  and  Arcadian  crime, 
In  abstract  form,  may  crowd  the  Epic  clime  ; 
But  His  the  Drama's  task  the  world  to  show, 
Where  bad  and  good  alternate  gloom  or  glow — 
Where  in  each  mind  are  various  passions  fixed  ; 
Virtue  with  vice,  and  vice  with  virtue  mixed. 
Some  lean  to  virtue,  some  to  vice  give  way  ; 
But  neither  bent  has  undivided  sway. 


IV 


Our  plot  turns  on  the  loathing  which  they  feel, 

Who  draw  their  spotless  race  from  proud  Castile, 

For  those  whose  lineage  bears  the  faintest  stain 

Of  the  hot  blood  which  fires  the  Moorish  vein. 

No  time  can  reconcile,  no  deed  abate, 

For  that  one  taint,  the  haughty  Spaniard's  hate : 

As  the  sound  man  the  loathsome  leper  shuns, 

So  pass  Castilians  by  Granada's  sons. 

This  is  the  key  which  gives  our  plot  to  view — 

Turn  o'er  the  leaf,  the  way  is  clear — adieu. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


CALAYNOS, A  wealthy  nobleman. 

DON  Luis, His  friend. 

DON  MIGUEL,  * 

Gentlemen  of  Seville. 
DON  LOPEZ,      ) 

OLIVER. Calaynos'  secretary. 

SOTO, Don  Luis'  servant. 

FRIAR  GIL. 
BALTASAR, 


Calaynos*  servants. 
PEDRO, 

DONA  ALDA,          ....     Wife  to  Calaynos. 
MARTINA,     .....     Her  maid. 

Four  Usurers,  a  Forester,  Servants,  fyc. 
SCENE,  Calaynos'  Castle,  Seville,  and  the  neighbourhood. 


CALAYNOS. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     The  Great  Hall  in  CALAYNOS'  Castle.     Enter 
PEDRO  and  BALTASAR,  carrying  bundles. 

PEDRO. 
I  like  not  this  journey  to  Seville. 

BALTASAR. 
O,  you  like  nothing  that  savours  of  gentility. 

PEDRO. 

How  can  I  like  it?  I  tell  you  this  genteel  savour 
is  deadly.  I'd  as  soon  die  by  sprats  as  by  turbot 
I've  a  rhyme  in  my  head. 

BALTASAR. 

And  a  rind  over  that :  what  is  it  7 
2 


10  CALAYNOS. 


"  When  a  Calaynos  shall  go  to  Seville, 

Then  sure  that  Calaynos  shall  go  to  ill" 
My  grandam  taught  me  that.  She  could  read, 
and  was  a  great  diviner,  with  a  beard  that  would 
make  two  of  yours.  She  told  fortunes  by  the  way 
a  cat  jumped,  or  a  sparrow  flew;  and  as  often  hit 
the  truth  as  the  wisest  of  your  scholars.  If  she  hit 
it  not,  then  was  not  the  thing  foreordered ;  and  she 
left  that  for  the  schoolmen  to  wrangle  about.  Why 
does  my  lord  go,  Baltasar  ? 

BALTASAR. 

To  do  homage  for  his  lands,  as  all  vassals  must. 
The  king  granted  his  ancestors  lands  ;  and  my  lord 
must  acknowledge  the  king's  right  and  sovereignty, 
as  he  holds  the  land  from  his  forefathers. 

PEDRO. 

Can  a  man  have  four  fathers  and  but  one  mo 
ther?  Then  was  not  his  mother  an  honest  woman. 


A  TRAGEDY.  11 

Mayhap,  some  day,  the  king  will  take  back   his 
land. 

BALTASAR. 

'T  would  pose  him  to  do  that. 

PEDRO. 

Here's  another  wise  thing !  Is  that  a  king's 
bounty  ?  My  lord  says,  "  Sir  king,  I'll  keep  what's 
my  own  most  faithfully."  Says  the  king,  "  You 
may  keep  what's  not  mine."  "  Thank  you  most 
humbly,  for  nothing,"  says  my  lord :  and  so  they 
part.  That's  worth  a  journey  to  hear!  Why  a  fool 
can  see  through  it. 

BALTASAR. 

So  I  see. 

PEDRO. 

If  you  see,  you  are  a  fool,  and  fell  in  a  fool's  trap. 

BALTASAR. 

So  I  see  again,  I  fell  in  a  fool's  trap.  Take  up 
your  traps,  good  fool,  and  be  off;  for  here  comes 

my  lord. 

[Exeunt  tcith  their  bundles. 


12  CALAYNOS. 

(Enter  CALAYNOS  and  DO^A  ALDA.) 

DONA  ALDA. 

Nay,  dear  Calaynos,  go  not  hence  to-day. 
Since  morn,  the  clouds  have  hugged  the  hidden  tops 
Of  the  rude  peaks  that  gird  our  mountain  home  ; 
Nor  could  the  fiercest  northern  blasts  shake  off 
Their  close  embrace.     But  now,  in  one  huge  mass, 
The  sluggish  vapours  down  the  mountains'  sides 
Roll  like  an  inundation.     Well  thou  know'st 
That  signs  like  these  portend  a  coming  storm  : 
Therefore,  until  the  storm  is  past,  delay  ; 
For  nothing  urges  this  immediate  haste. 

CALAYNOS. 

To  please  thee,  Alda,  I'll  remain  to-day. 
But,  for  a  mountain  maiden,  thou  hast  grown 
Strangely  afraid  of  gentle  summer  showers  ; 
Perchance  thy  love  exaggerates  the  fear. 
Thou'rt  not  thus  chary  to  expose  thyself 
E'en  to  the  blasts  which  chilling  winter  blows. 

DONA  ALDA. 

If  not  to-day,  why  go  to-morrow  morn  ? 


A   TRAGEDY.  13 

Or  why  next  day  ?   Or  why  go'st  thou  at  all  ? 
If  thou  wilt  go,  then  let  me  go  with  thee. 
An  hour,  and  I'll  be  ready :  I  shall  need 
But  scanty  preparation  to  set  forth. 

CALAYNOS. 

Thou  hast  forgotten.     But  a  moment  since, 
Thy  fear  was  brewing  a  fast-gathering  storm ; 
Which  thou,  in  fancy,  on  the  mountains  saw'st 
Resting  its  threatening  front.     Alda,  I  see 
That  'tis  thy  fond  intent  to  win  my  mind 
From  what  I  must  perform.     Long  since  in  death 
My  father  closed  his  eyes  ;  yet  ancient  rites, 
Which  signiors  owe  their  liege,  by  me  unmarked, 
Their  term  of  grace  have  passed.  But  now  the  king, 
By  stiff  set  phrase  of  law,  allegiance  claims, 
And  homage  due  demands. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Far  be't  from  me 

To  counsel  breach  of  law.   Nay,  go  thou  must ; 
But  why  not  I  with  thee  ?     Shall  I  thus  pine — 

2* 


14  CALAYNOS. 

Shut,  like  a  cloistered  nun,  in  these  dark  walls- 
Whilst  thou  with  retinue  and  pomp  of  power, 
Seville  mak'st  wonder '( — Beautiful  Seville  ! 
Of  which  I've  dreamed,  until  I  saw  its  towers 
In  every  cloud  that  hid  the  setting  sun  ; 
Saw  its  long  trains  of  youths  and  maidens  fair 
Sweep,  like  a  sunlit  stream,  along  the  streets ; 
Saw  its  cathedrals  vast,  its  palaces, 
Its  marts  o'erladen  with  the  Indies'  spoils, 
Its  galleys  rocking  in  the  crowded  bays  ; 
Heard  its  loud  hum  by  day,  its  airs  by  night 
Struck  from  guitars,  that  guide  the  busy  feet 
Of  rosy  youth  across  the  springing  ground. 
Methinks  the  moon  shines  brighter  on  Seville, 
And  every  star  looks  larger  for  mere  joy  ! 
And  then,  Martina — 

CALAYNOS. 

Ah  !   Martina  ?— so. 

DONA  ALDA. 

But,  dear  Calaynos,  thou'lt  not  blame  the  girl : 


A    TRAGEDY.  15 

She  in  Seville  was  born ;  her  youthful  days, 

When  the  heart  easiest  takes  impress  of  joy, 

Were  in  Seville  all  past.     Martina  says, 

That  'mong  the  ladies  there,  none  could  o'ertop 

In  state,  or  retinue,  or  worship  paid 

By  all  the  glittering  throng  that  girds  the  throne, 

The  bride  of  great  Calaynos. 

CALAYNOS. 

Alda,  cease : 
Thou'rt   pleading   'gainst   thyself;    nor  dost  thou 

know, 

How  frail  the  fabric  of  the  dream-wove  vision, 
When  cunning  fancy  plies  her  golden  hand. 

DONA   ALDA. 

What  meanest  thou  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Martina  told  but  half: 
Or  did  she  tell  how  sloth  and  beggary, 
Closely  attended  by  their  handmaid  vice, 
Stare,  with  lack-lustre  and  ferocious  eyes, 


16  CALAYNOS. 

Into  the  porch  of  every  palace  gate  ? 
How  want  creeps  forth  at  night  with  tottering  pace, 
And  'gainst  the  windows  of  the  revellers, 
Flattens  its  pinched  and  wasted  features  out, 
Cursing  the  feasts  for  which  one  half  the  world 
Labours  unpaid  ?     And,  Alda,  did  she  tell 
Of  marketable  crime,  of  sin  for  sale  ? 
Of  multitudes  neck-deep  in  ignorance, 
Toiling  with  murmurs  'neath  a  servile  yoke, 
Checked  and  o'erawed  by  bayonet  and  axe  ? 
How  they  who  bend  to  power,  and  lap  its  milk, 
Are  fickler  and  more  dangerous  far,  than  they 
Who  honestly  defy  it  ?     How  jealousy 
Consumes  their  hearts  who  most  caress  and  woo  it? 
Know'st  thou  the  slippery  falsehoods  of  the  Court, 
Where  every  step  is  on  a  quaking  bog, 
Where  men  spend  lives  on  hopes  and  promises, 
And  pine  on  smiles,  and  starve  on  smooth-told  lies '? 
Thou  know'st  not  this ;  nor  shall  thy  rustic  mind, 
Pure  as  the  Guadalquiver,  ere  it  flows 


A   TRAGEDY.  17 

Past  the  foul  sluices  that  Seville  outpours, 
Know  aught  of  it. 

DONA   ALDA. 

If  thou  wilt  have  it  so, 

I  needs  must  stay.     But  I  shall  count  the  hours, 
And  chide  along  the  slow-paced  summer  days  : 
For  thou  art  all  with  whom  I  dare  to  mate, 
A  lonely  queen,  without  a  court  or  friend. 
And,  losing  thee,  thou  leav'st  me  with  these  walls : 
Whose  forms  I'll  hate,  because  they  rise  between 
Thee  and  myself.   '  Ah  !  it  is  very  sad 
To  be  shut  up,  for  days  and  days  together, 
With  these  old  portraits  of  thine  ancestors — 
That  look  like  Moors,  though  they  be  Christian 

men — 
All   mailed  and   helmed,  whose  knit  and  warlike 

brows 

Beneath  their  casques  send  forth  a  settled  scowl, 
Darkening  the  hall ;  or  see,  like  shadows,  come 
The  old  retainers,  by  my  presence  awed, 


18  CALAYNOS. 

To  beg  some  leave  they  need  not  have  besought. 
What  gloomy  state !    Martina  calls  me  Proserpine. 

CALAYNOS. 

Again  "  Martina  !"    Love,  I  fear  thy  maid 

Has  put  these  vagrant  fancies  in  thy  head. 

I  never  liked  her  bold,  pert,  city  modes : 

With  upturned  nose  she  treads  the  castle  floors, 

As  if  she  thought  the  very  air  might  breed 

Some  loathsome  plague.     Then  at  our  festivals — 

Time-worn,  though  quaint  and  homely  they  may 

be— 

A  supercilious  smile  comes  o'er  her  face ; 
As  if  she,  fallen  from  paradise,  perforce 
Endured  the  antics  of  rude  savages. 
I  like  not  that  her  busy  tongue  should  stuff 
Thine  open  ears,  who'rt  ever  ripe  for  change, 
With  all  the  worn-out  tinsel  of  a  town ; 
And  breed  in  thee  a  discontent  for  state 
Which  many  a  queen  might  pine  with  envy  for. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Calaynos,  thou  dost  rate  my  girl  too  hard. 


A  TRAGEDY.  19 

I  wonder  not  that  she,  a  city  maid, 

Should  sometimes  long  for  the  more  joyous  scenes 

With  which  her  memory  mocks  our  quiet  life. 

CALAYNOS. 

Well,  let  her  go — she  is  no  slave  of  mine. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Her  love  for  me  has  forged  a  stronger  bar 
To  keep  her  here,  than  strictest  bondage  could. 

CALAYNOS. 

Her  love  for  thee !   Nay,  Alda,  there  are  those 
Who  love  to  live  where  they  may  scold  and  frown, 
And  toss  their  heads  at  every  thing  they  see : 
So,  by  affected  knowledge,  seem  above 
All   the   poor   fools   that   round   them    wondering 

crowd. 
Such  is  thy  maid. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Calaynos,  truce  to  this. 
Martina  loves  me;  shall  I  throw  her  off"? 


20  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

I  do  not  urge  it.     But  thou'rt  lately  grown 
Strangely  ill-humoured  with  thy  dwelling-place, 
And  vexed  and  discontented  with  thyself. 
Come  to  the  casement ;  look  from  these  huge  walls, 
Whose  massive  strength  has  held  a  king  at  bay, 
Down  on  the  ripening  fields  of  yellow  grain  ; 
Let  thine  eyes  roam  o'er  swarming  villages, 
Busy  with  life  and  filled  with  happy  hearts, 
Far  to  the  hills  that,  with  their  smoky  heads, 
Hem  in  the  view  and  guard  our  favoured  vale : 
Round  this  domain  the  proudest  bird  of  air 
Could  scarcely  circle  with  an  untired  wing — 
All  this  is  thine.     O,  what  a  field  for  good 
Lies  here  outspread  before  thee  !     Life  employed 
In  ministration  to  this  grateful  land, 
Would  win  for  thee  a  place  beside  the  saints. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Have  I  not  ever  given,  at  morn  and  eve, 

To  all  the  ragged  band  that  throngs  our  gate  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  21 

CALAYNOS. 

This  is  but  half  the  task  of  charity. 

Seek  out  the  needy,  cheer  the  wretched  mind, 

Urge  on  the  slothful,  pour  thy  spirit's  balm 

On  wounds  which  time  has  fretted  to  the  quick ; 

Counsel   the   weak,   and   make  the   strong    more 

strong ; 

The  soul  has  urgent  need  for  faith  and  hope, 
More  pressing  and  immediate  than  the  wants 
The  choking  sailor  feels  upon  the  wreck. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Why  now,  my  lord,  thou'dst  make  a  nun  of  me — 
One  of  those  maids  of  black-robed  charity, 
Who  sometimes  hither  come,  with  solemn  step, 
To  ask  my  bounty.     Convents  are  there  not, 
By  thee  endowed,  to  feed  each  starving  soul  1 

CALAYNOS. 

Yes  ;  but  in  works  of  good  there  cannot  be 
Too  many  hands ;  the  task  is  ne'er  o'erdone. 
Alda,  my  grave  discourse  fatigues  thine  ear. — 
3 


22  CALAYNOS. 

Well,  I  must  leave  thee  to  prepare  my  train  ; 
My  homebred  knaves  are  slack  at  setting  forth, 
And  I  must  urge  them.     Farewell,  love. 

DONA   ALDA. 

Farewell.     [Exit  CALAYNOS. 
Thus  comes  he  ever  with  that  thoughtful  brow, 
Thus  goes  he  ever  with  that  calm,  cold  mien, 
Thus  would  he  ever  be,  thus  passionless, 
If  all  the  world  were  hissing  in  his  face  ! 
More  like  a  father  than  a  husband  he — 
O !  how  could  love  for  me  usurp  abode 
In  such  a  heart !     Martina,  are  you  there  ? 
(Enter  MARTINA.) 

MARTINA. 
My  lady,  did  you  call  ? 

DONA   ALDA. 

Come  hither,  girl. 
O,  what  a  sermon  has  been  preached  to  me  ! 

MARTINA. 

On  what  ? — by  whom  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  23 

DONA  ALDA. 

By  whom  but  by  my  lord  1 
And  what  the  subject,  think  you,  of  his  speech  ? 

MARTINA. 

On  the  regeneration  of  the  world ; 
Taking  his  text  from  Plato ;  quoting  large, 
In  Greek  and  Hebrew,  to  make  clear  the  fact 
That  two  and  two  make  four.  Good  Lord  !  they  say 
He  talks  th6  Cura  out  of  countenance; 
And  so  comes  down  upon  the  good  man's  head, 
With  hints  of  things  above  his  scope  of  thought, 
That   he,   both   night   and    morning,   prays    kind 

heaven 
To  keep  your  lord  from  utter  heresy. 

DONA  ALDA. 

You  have  shot  wide  the  mark ;  for  charity 
Was  all  he  taught. 

MARTINA. 

Ho  !  ho  !  he'd  have  you  mount, 
Like  a  mad  nun,  upon  a  sumpter  mule, 


24  CALAYNOS. 

And  ride  the  country  down,  to  vex  the  sick 

With  nauseous  draughts — or  have  you  thrust  your 

face 

In  the  affairs  of  every  poor,  proud  man  : 
So  would  you  gain  wry  mouths  for  recompense ; 
Or  have  a  pack  of  haughty  curses  sent 
To  dog  your  steps. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Peace,  peace,  you  rattlepate  ! 
My  lord  but  thinks  of  benefits  to  man  ; 
His  every  wish  and  act  inclines  to  good. 
And  sometimes,  in  the  dead  and  hush  of  night, 
When  evil  thoughts  dare  scarcely  walk  abroad, 
When  loneliness  and  fear  half  play  the  part 
Of  humble  holiness  and  force  the  heart, 
Despite  its  wicked  bent,  to  virtuous  plans, 
Some  random  word,  which  he,  in  pass^pg,  dropped 
On  the  light  fallow  of  my  wavering  mind, 
Springs  up  and  blossoms,  with  a  promise  fair ; 
But  with  the  morning  dew  dries  up  the  fruit, 


A  TRAGEDY.  25 

And  1  laugh  down,  as  weak  and  childish  fright, 
What,  'chance,  an  angel  whispered  in  mine  ear. 

MARTINA. 

Dear  madam,  you  have  grown  as  grave  and  sad 
As  your  sage  lord,  by  pondering  o'er  such  things: 
I  prithee  drive  them  out  with  gayer  thoughts ; 
Or  all  within  the  castle  may  become 
A  band  of  nuns  and  sourest  anchorites. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Yet  there  is  much  of  moment  in  these  things, 
Could  we  of  fickle  purpose,  deem  them  so. 

MARTINA. 

Lady,  I  heard  an  old  physician  say, 

That  melancholy  is  the  chiefest  spring 

Of  raving  madness.     Dwell  not  on  such  thoughts. 

DONA  ALDA. 

And  would  you  rob  me  of  my  very  thoughts, 
The  only  things  I  have  to  wile  the  time  1 
What  can  I  do,  but  think,  and  think,  and  think, 
In  this  unvarying  castle  ? 
3* 


26  CALAYNOS. 

• 

MARTINA. 

There  it  is ! 

Could  you  but  see  Seville  in  all  its  pomp, 
As  I  have  seen  it,  when  the  Court  is  there — 
Could  you  but  see  our  king  ride  through  the  gate, 
Decked  like  the  east  when  morn  first  opes  her  eye; 
Hear  the  loud  flourishes  of  trump  and  drum, 
The  glad  huzzas,  the  rattling  musketry, 
The  pealing  bells,  the  thundering  cannon-shots  ; 
See  the  great  ships,  the  ocean's  swans,  bedecked 
With  silken  banners,  of  all  shapes  and  dyes ; 
The  courtiers  see,  the  proudest  stars  of  Spain, 
In  one  grand  constellation  sweep  along ; 
Then  think  that  you,  the  brightest  star  of  all, 
Might  blot  them  half  with  your  superior  light ! 
Madam,  my  lord  is  wise  to  keep  you  here, 
In  utter  ignorance  of  your  rank  and  power  ; 
Once  knowing  these,  and  gaining  homage  due, 
'Twould   stretch  his  arm  to  keep  you  from  your 
rights. 


A  TRAGEDY.  27 

DONA  ALDA. 

But  he  has  no  desire  for  this  gay  Court. 

MARTINA. 

He  !  why,  to  him  the  gay  are  butterflies, 

Flitting  around  a  light  of  which  they  die. 

He  looks  on  pleasure  as  a  kind  of  sin ; 

Calls  pastime  waste-time.  Each  to  his  trade,  say  I. 

I  heard  a  man,  who  spent  a  mortal  life 

In  hoarding  up  all  kinds  of  stones  and  ores, 

Call  one,  who  spitted  flies  upon  a  pin, 

A  fool,  to  pass  his  precious  lifetime  thus ! 

What  might  delight  you,  lady,  may  not  him  ; 

And  yet  your  pleasures  argue  you  no  fool, 

Nor  his  grave  brows  prove  a  philosopher. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Stop,  malpert  girl !  you're  trenching  on  my  love  ; 
Your  glibly  flowing  tongue  must  not  presume 
Too  far  upon  the  license  I  allow. 
Thus  every  day,  of  late,  I've  caught  you  up, 
About  to  strike  a  side-blow  at  my  lord. 


28  CALAYNOS. 

MARTINA. 

Pardon  me,  madam,  if  I  went  too  far. 
Of  late  my  silly  brain  has  been  perplexed 
With  a  great  problem,  which  I  cannot  solve. 
Thus  runs  the  question — who  are  wise,  who  fools '? 
The  man  with  heavy  brows  and  solemn  thoughts, 
Looks  on  the  gay  as  blank  in  fortune's  wheel ; 
But  then  the  fool  laughs  in  his  sapient  face. 
At  this  the  sage  flies  in  a  windy  rage, 
And  calls  hard  names,  and  works  his  angry  liver 
To  bilious  fits,  which  end  the  good  man's  days ; 
When  laughs  the  ribald  jester  more  and  more. 
Now  which  is  wiser  ?  He  who  frowns  and  scolds, 
And  views  sweet  nature  in  a  sallow  light; 
Or  he  who  takes  what  pleasure  comes  to  hand, 
Gleaning  some  honey  from  the  bitterest  flowers, 
And,  when  death  scowls,  smiles  in  his  hideous  face? 
Can  you  resolve  ? 

DONA  ALDA. 

Not  I,  philosopher. 


A  TRAGEDY.  29 


Your  gentle  education  has  nigh  spoiled 

A  most  complete,  well-mannered  waiting-maid. 

But  there  walks  Oliver,  in  sober  thought ; 

Call  him  ;  perchance  he  can  resolve  your  doubts. 


MARTINA. 


Yes,  there  he  goes — just  see  him,  mistress  dear 
Backward  and  forward,  like  a  weaver's  shuttle, 
Spinning  some  web  of  wisdom  most  divine, 
I  warrant  you.     Observe  his  solemn  brows, 
His  monk-like  gait,  his  cap  without  a  plume, 
His  stiff  and  formal  clothes,  sans  tag  or  braid. 
There  is  a  nursling  of  this  house  of  learning — 
A  man  all  head,  without  a  heart  or  sense. 
Once  I  made  love  to  him,  for  lack  of  work, 
And  got  a  frown  for  all  my  tenderness : 
Therefore  I  hate  him  !     I  can  pardon  one 
Who  felt  affection,  should  he  turn  to  hate ; 
But  never  one  who  slips  my  favours  by. 
Shall  I  address  him  ? 


30  CALAYNOS. 

DONA  ALDA. 

If  it  pleases  you. 

MARTINA. 

Ho,  Oliver !  ho,  sage  !  a  mortal  calls — 
A  mortal  wandering  in  dark  error's  path — 
For  light  and  succour ! 

(Enter  OLIVER.) 

OLIVER. 

Did  you  call  me,  lady  ? 

DONA  ALDA. 

Martina  called  you. 

OLIVER. 

Yes,  I  know  her  voice. 

I  thought  she  called  for  you ;  her  notes  are  pitched 
Some  octaves  higher  than  your  ladyship's, 
And  further  heard. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Nay,  you  two  jar  at  once, 


A  TRAGEDY.  31 

When  brought  in  contact.     Well,  you  must  e'en 

strike 
Your  angry  blows  without  a  witness  near,       [Exit. 

MARTINA. 

So  then,  you  think  my  voice  is  over  shrill 
For  your  soft  ears,  attuned  to  Plato's  spheres. 

OLIVER. 
Why  did  you  call  so  loud,  I  walking  near  ? 

MARTINA. 

You  near !    I  thought  you  half  way  up  to  heaven — 
How  can  a  man  be  where  his  mind  is  not  ? 
Wherein  consists  this  thing  which  you  call  I ; 
In  your  gross  flesh,  or  in  your  heaven-born  spirit  1 

OLIVER. 

Strive  not  to  vex  me  with  such  mockery. 
All  your  pert  smartness,  and  your  sallies  shrewd, 

Are  spent  with  loss  on  ears  as  dull  as  mine. 

% 

MARTINA. 

Ugh  !  man,  but  I  do  hate  you  ! 


32  CALAYNOS. 

OLIVER. 

Hate  me  then. 

MARTINA. 

Our  clay,  the  preachers  say,  was  warmed  to  life  ; 
But  yours,  your  dull,  cold  mud,  was  froze  to  being. 
I  would  not  be  the  oyster  that  you  are, 
For  all  the  pearls  of  wisdom  in  your  shell ! 

OLIVER. 

A  truce  to  this.     I  haul  my  colours  down ; 
I  have  no  means  to  fight  your  light-armed  tongue. 
But  I  must  warn  you,  for  I  late  o'erheard 
The  words  which  you  with  Lady  A  Ida  held, 
That  if  you  urge  your  sensual  doctrines  more — 
To  the  pollution  of  my  lady's  thoughts — 
My  lord  shall  know  it. 

MARTINA. 

Pshaw  !  I  meant  no  harm. 
OLIVER. 
I  know  not.  what  you  mean,  but  harm  you  do. 


A   TRAGEDY.  33 

MARTINA. 

Why  talk  you  thus,  you  demi-atheist  ? 

I've  heard  you  hold  a  creed  against  the  church, 

Which,  spread  abroad,  might  overturn  the  world, 

And  send  us  all  unbaptized  to  the  pit. 

They  say  you  have  no  faith  in  good  men's  prayers; 

And  of  salvation  talk  not,  but  progression. — 

Are  these  things  so  ? 

OLIVER. 

Are  you  Inquisitor  ? 

MARTINA. 

Did  you  say  aught  against  the  Holy  Office  1 

OLIVER. 
No  word,  to  you,  O  pious  Catholic  ! 

MARTINA. 

Ambassador  from  cloud-land,  take  your  leave. 
I  do  not  wish  to  vex  an  oracle ; 
And  we  have  bandied  words  enough  to-day. 
4 


34  CALAYNOS. 

OLIVER. 

I  go  ;  but  keep  my  warning  in  your  mind.        [Exit. 

MARTINA. 

That  man  of  learning  has  a  lynx's  eye. 
I'll  be  more  circumspect:  it  will  not  do 
To  have  the  great  Calaynos  at  my  ears ; 
To  leave  behind  a  home  as  warm  as  this, 
Where  I'm  half  mistress  of  whate'er  it  holds, 
Again  to  struggle  with  the  ruthless  world  : 
Yet  to  Seville  I'll  go  for  wantonness. 
Well,  we  shall  see  what  woman's  craft  can  do. 
Against  the  brains  of  two  philosophers.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II. 

The  study  of  CALAYNOS.     Enter  OLIVER. 

OLIVER. 

* 

I  do  not  like  this  journey  of  my  lord's — 
And  yet  I  know  not  why  ;  the  path  is  safe, 


A  TRAGEDY.  35 

And  we  are  guarded  by  a  retinue. 
'Tis  many  a  year  since  last  I  saw  Seville  ; 
'Tis  natural,  therefore,  I  should  wish  to  go : 
Yet  do  I  not.     What  can  this  feeling  mean? 
Is  it  that  influence,  o'ermastering  will, 
Presentiment,  which  pulls  me  from  the  wish, 
And  presses  on  my  heart  its  leaden  weight  ? 
I've  heard  that  soundest  sleepers  will  awake 
When  danger  steals  upon  them.     It  may  be 
The  first,  low  knocking  of  death's  pallid  hand, 
Ere  he  flings  wide  the  gate  which  shelters  life, 
That  so  appals  my  mind,  and  shakes  my  purpose. 
Pshaw !  this  is  idle — I  must  e'en  end  thus, 
As  I  began,  I  do  not  wish  to  go. 

(Enter  CALAYNOS.) 

CALAYNOS. 

Are  all  things  ready  for  our  selling  forth? 

OLIVER. 
They  are,  my  lord. 


36  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

Then,  at  the  break  of  day, 
Mount  all  the  train. 

OLIVER. 
You  have  delayed  till  then  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Yes ;  'twas  my  lady's  wish,  not  my  intent. 
But  on  the  morrow  we  must  sure  begone  ; 
We  do  but  give  our  parting  lengthened  pangs 
By  keeping  doubt  alive. 

(Enter  a  Servant.') 

SERVANT. 

My  lord,  old  Friar  Gil  is  in  the  hall, 
And  craves  admittance. 

CALAYNOS. 

Friar  Gil !  how's  this  ? 
'Twas  but  a  week  ago  we  met,  and  then 
He  tottered  so  beneath  his  weight  of  years, 
He  scarce  could  ope  the  door  that  guards  his  cell. 


A  TRAGEDY.  37 

SERVANT. 

He  seems  to  walk  with  pain,  and  well  nigh  dropped, 
Ere  we  could  bring  him  to  the  neighbouring  hall. 

CALAYNOS. 

Admit  him  then.  (Exit  Servant.)  'Tis  near  a  miracle: 
So  feeble — 

(Enter  FRIAR  GIL.) 

FRIAR  GIL. 
Son,  my  blessing. 

CALAYNOS. 

Welcome,  Father. 

Thou  art  fatigued  and  weakened  by  thy  walk. — 
What  cause  has  drawn  thee  from  thy  cell  so  far? 
Such  lengthened  walks,  to  one  of  thy  great  age, 
Are  full  of  peril.     Why  not  send  for  me  ? 
Bring  a  chair,  Oliver.      (OLIVETS,  places  a  chair.) 
So,  sit  thee  down. 

FRIAR  GIL. 

1  feared  to  miss  thee;  as  I  lately  heard 

4* 


38  CALAYNOS. 

That  thou  a  journey  to  Seville  design'st : 

I  came  to  warn  thee  from  that  dangerous  step. 

CALAYNOS. 

Dangerous  !  What  danger  do  you  know  or  fear  ' 

FEIAR  GIL. 

None  that  is  certain,  every  one  I  fear. 

OLIVER. 

Ha  !  here's  another  seer.     (Aside.} 

CALAYNOS. 

Father,  thy  path  through  life  was  long  and  hard, 
And  thou  hast  gathered  wisdom  by  the  way ; 
But  this  idea  is  baseless  phantasy. 

FRIAR  GIL. 

Hear  me,  Calaynos  !     As  I  lay  last  night 
Sleepless,  but  why  I  know  not,  on  my  bed, 
Telling  my  beads  and  thinking  o'er  my  sins, 
Thy  grandsire,  as  I  saw  him  ere  he  left 
This  castle  for  Seville,  before  me  stood. 


A  TRAGEDY.  39 

Pointing  his  hand,  through  which  the  moonbeams 

shone, 

To  a  great  gash  beneath  his  lifted  arm  ; 
Then,  solemnly  and  slow,  he  waved  his  hand, 
As  if  in  warning,  towards  the  castle  gate. 
I  strove  to  speak  ;  but  ere  my  tongue  was  loosed, 
The  melancholy  shadow  passed  away. 
So,  with  the  dawn,  I  rose  to  seek  thee  here: 
Once   turned   me   back,   to   'scape   thy  lordship's 

laugh ; 

But  ere  three  steps  were  ta'en,  I  prostrate  fell, 
Though  the  paih  'neath  me  was  without  a  stone. 
It  seemed  the  will  of  Heaven  that  urged  me  on, 
And  gave  my  feeble  frame  unwonted  strength  : 
So  have  I  sought  thee,  though  but  half  in  hope, 
To  overrule  thee  in  this  enterprise. 


CALAYNOS. 


For  thy  kind  zeal  I  thank  thee.     'Twas  a  dream, 

Bred  on  a  superstition  of  our  house, 

That  to  my  race  Seville  brings  fated  death. 


40  CALAYNOS. 

FRIAR  GIL. 

Has  it  not  been  1     Did  not  the  one  I  saw 
Fall  at  Seville,  struck  by  a  coward's  steel 
Over  the  wine-cup  1     So  thy  father  thought ; 
And  he  did  homage  by  a  deputy  ; 
As  oft  I've  heard  him  say.     Go  further  back  ;— 
All  of  thy  race  shunned,  like  a  plague,  Seville. 
And  thou  the  last  of  all  the  mighty  line, 
The  wisest,  greatest,  without  heir  or  kin, 
Wouldst  tempt  thy  fate,  though  nothing  urges  thee. 

CALAYNOS. 

This  is  a  thing  at  which  my  reason  laughs, 
And  naught  but  actual  trial  can  resolve. 

FRIAR  GIL. 

Go,  go,  thou  headstrong  man  ! — nay,  I'll  not  chide, 

May  God  go  with  thee — I  have  done  my  part. 

[  Going. 

CALAYNOS. 

Farewell !     We'll  meet  again. 


A  TRAGEDY.  41 

FRIAR  GIL. 

Perhaps — farewell !  [Exit. 

OLIVER. 
I  hope,  my  lord,  you'll  take  the  Friar's  advice. 

CALAYNOS. 

Take  what  ? — Take  hellebore,  good  Oliver  ; 
For  you  with  Friar  Gil  have  lost  your  wits. 

OLIVER. 

I  am  not  superstitious,  as  you  know ; 
But  when  I  think  what  greatness  hangs  on  you, 
And  with  your  fall  how  much  would  be  o'erthrown, 
I  nigh  believe  that  watchful  heaven  might  send 
This  anxious  phantom  to  avert  your  ill. 

CALAYNOS. 

I  do  not  go  through  stiff-necked  stubbornness ; 

I  view  these  rights  of  homage  to  the  crown 

As  a  stale  pageant  better  unperformed, 

At  least  by  me,  who  can  depute  the  act. 

But  in  Seville  I  have  a  most  dear  friend, 

From  whom,  till  late,  1  had  not  heard  for  years ; 


42  CALAYNOS. 

And  now  he  writes  me  in  the  closest  straits, 
Saying  his  lands  are  forfeit  for  some  debts, 
By  knavish  means  imposed  upon  his  hands : 
Should  the  law  take  its  course,  his  wealth  is  gone, 
And  he  turned  forth  in  utter  beggary. 
Some  days  ago  I  sent  him  present  aid  ; 

With  promise  to  redeem  his  lands  from  pawn, 

-  »< . 
When  at  Seville  I  should  the  Court  attend. 

OLIVEH. 

Let  me  not  balk  you  in  this  noble  act, 
Though  instant  peril  stare  us  in  the  face. 

CALAYNOS. 

He  loves  not  good  who  turns  from  it  through  fear. 
O,  what  a  joy  is  it  to  have  the  power 
That  lifts  from  want  the  worthy  sufferer  ! 
What  double  rapture  when  he  calls  us  friend, 
And  with  that  name  wipes  obligation  off!  ? 
Out,  out ! — my  heart's  afire,  till  this  be  done  ! 
Urge  on  the  loiterers — see  them  all  prepared 

To  start  at  dawn — our  speed  shall  clip  the  way  ! 

[Exeunt. 


A  TRAGEDY. 


43 


ACT    II. 
SCENE  I.     A  street  in  Seville.     Enter  DON  Luis  and  SOTO. 

Mfc 

DON  LUIS. 

Stand  here,  good  Soto  ;  should  a  dun  come  by, 
Stop  the  base  fellow,  ere  he  gains  my  door, 
With  some  excuse  you  are  so  apt  at  framing ; 
But  by  no  means  admit  him  to  the  house. 

SOTO. 

My  lord,  I'll  try,  if  trying  can  avail. 
Of  late  my  stock  of  lies  has  run  full  low, 
And  all  my  wares  are  out  of  date  and  stale. 
The  creditors  have  got  the  wind  of  me, 
And  strive  with  tricks  to  meet  my  subtlest  shifts. 
For  if  I  say  you're  ill,  and  in  your  bed ; 
The  fe^How  vows  he  is  a  learned  leech, 
For  whom  your  lordship  sent.     If,  to  the  next, 
I  say  you've  gone  from  town  to  stay  a  month ; 


44 


The  rogue  but  asks  admittance  for  a  while, 

To  write  a  line  for  you,  on  your  return. 

Another  comes  hot  haste,  as  if  a  friend, 

Pregnant  with  news  which  argues  you  much  good  : 

Another  bears  a  letter  from  the  Court : 

Another  has  a  package,  stuffed  with  rags, 

As  a  rare  present  from  a  nobleman. 

I  hear  they  watch  all  night  the  city  gates, 

For  fear  you  might  escape. 

DON  LUIS. 

Then  say,  that  I 

Am  harboured  with  a  rich,  usurious  Jew, 
Who  lends  me  money  on  my  country-house, 
With  which  I  will  discharge  their  claims  ere  long. 

SOTO. 
That  will  scarce  do ;  they  have  more  knowledge 

got 

Of  your  affairs,  of  what  you  hold,  what  owe, 
Of  what  encumbrances  are  on  the  lands, 
Than  I  conceive  your  lordship  can  possess. 


A  TRAGEDY.  45 

DON  LUIS. 

Well,  well,  but  put  them  off,  and  I'm  content. 

I  must  be  gone,  the  town  begins  to  wake.         [Exit. 

SOTO. 

Here's  a  fine  prospect  for  an  airy  breakfast ! 
He  thinks  I  live  on  moisture  from  the  earth ; 
So  stands  me  here  to  take  my  fill  of  it. 
Were  I  an  ostrich,  there's  a  tender  stone, 
Soft  as  my  master's  heart,  on  which  I'd  feed ; 
But  as  a  Christian  man — nay,  I'm  a  saint; 
I  keep  more  fasts  than  all  the  Calendar : 
A  little  out  of  time — but  what  of  that  ? 
I'll  plead,  the  Pope  has  changed  the  almanac. 
Last  Friday  I  ate  meat — well,  what  of  that? 
Sunday  and  Monday  not  a  bone  saw  I. 
To  fast's  the  thing — the  act,  and  not  the  day — 
To  mortify  the  flesh,  and  starve  out  sin. 
Some  mortified  their  flesh  on  Friday  last ; 
But  I  chose  Sunday — who  is  better  now  ? 
I  mortified  my  flesh  as  much  as  they, 
5 


46  CALAYNOS. 

Only  I  took  another  day  to  do  it. 

Lord !  who  comes  here,  tricked  off  in  grandad's 

clothes  ? 

So  out  of  fashion,  and  so  rustical ! 
But  yet  the  bumpkin  has  a  noble  air, 
As  born  for  acts  above  his  quality. 

(Enter  OLIVER.) 

Ho,  there !  why  stare  you  thus  at  every  house, 
As  if  you  thought  the  stones  could  speak  to  you  ? 
You  are  a  stranger,  if  I  judge  aright — 
Can  I  assist  you  ip  your  patient  search  ? 

OLIVER. 

Thanks  for  your  courteous  speech  and  kind  intent. 
In  truth,  I'm  puzzled,  in  this  thick-built  town, 
To  find  the  single  house  for  which  I  look. 

SOTO. 

Whose  is  the  house? 

OLIVER. 

Don  Luis  is  his  name  ; 
On  whom  my  lord  intends  to  call  ere  long. 


A   TRAGEDY.  47 

SOTO. 

Here's  a  new  trick  of  these  cursed  creditors ! 
What  will  they  next  1    (Aside.}    What  station  hold 

you,  friend, 
In  your  lord's  pay  ? 

OLIVER. 
His  secretary  I. 

SOTO. 

'Tis  a  good  place.     I  once  that  office  held — 
By  dint  of  an  inked  nail,  to  recommend — 
Under  a  lord  who  flits  about  the  Court, 
For  a  good  twelve-month.     But,  alas,  one  day 
He  fell  in  love,  and  called  on  me  to  write, 
Then  kicked  me  out  of  doors. 

OLIVER. 

Why  how  was  that '( 

SOTO. 

Simple  enough — I  could  not  write  a  line. 

OLIVER. 
Your  impudence  but  bore  its  natural  fruit. 


48  CALAYNOS. 


SOTO. 


I  thought  a  courtier's  scribe  a  thing  for  show — 
Part  of  his  state,  and  not  designed  for  use : 
So  had  it  been,  had  he  not  fallen  in  love. 

OLIVER. 
What  station  fill  you  now  ? 

SOTO. 

Of  every  use. 

When  my  lord  cannot  play  at  dice  or  cards, 
He  kicks  me  round  his  room,  to  pass  the  time ; 
Or  sets  me  at  some  villany,  whereby 
He  may  be  able  to  resume  his  play  ; 
But  the  chief  thing,  for  which  I  am  employed, 
Is  an  experiment  on  human  stomachs, 
To  see  how  little  man  can  eat,  and  live. — 
Are  you  well  fed  ? 

OLIVER. 

More  than  I  can  consume 
Is  set  before  me  daily.     Did  I  wish, 
I  might  bolt  down  an  ox,  at  every  meal — 


A  TRAGEDY.  49 

My  lord  would  but  admire  my  appetite. 

'Tis  a  strange  knave — I'll  lead  him  further  on. 

[Aside. 

soxo. 
Yours  is  the  place  for  me,  could  I  but  write. 

OLIVER. 

Why  not  take  service  with  another  master  '. 
If,  at  each  meal-time,  I  became  possessed 
With  the  rude  fact  that  I  a  stomach  had, 
I'd  leave  my  feeder. 

SOTO. 

So  would  I,  in  fact ; 
But  certain  services  I've  done  my  lord, 
Unfit  me  for  the  change — so  people  think. 
Is  your  lord  rich  ? 

OLIVER. 
The  richest  man  in  Spain. 

SOTO. 
What  wages  have  you  1 

5* 


50  CALAYNOS. 

OLIVER. 

All  he  has  is  mine, 
Were  I  disposed  to  use  't. 

SOTO. 

He's  generous  ! 
OLIVER. 

Free  as  the  air,  which  all  alike  may  breathe. 
He  never  dreams  that  man  would  wrong  his  bounty. 

SOTO. 
His  name  ? 

OLIVER. 

Calaynos. 

SOTO. 

Fiends  and  furies  seize  me  ! 
Why  did  I  talk  this  way  about  Don  Luis? 
All  the  town  knows  it — he  must  hear  it  soon ; 
But  yet  he  may  not,  if  we  manage  right.       [Aside. 
What  man  of  lordly  gait  now  hither  comes  '( 
By  his  brave  port,  a  more  than  common  man. 


A  TRAGEDY.  51 

OLIVER. 

That  is  my  lord  Calaynos.     Can  you  tell 

Where  this  Don  Luis  dwells,  for  whom  we  search  ? 

SOTO. 

Down  yonder  street.  .  .     I  must  be  off  apace, 
To  give  Don  Luis  timely  note  of  this. — 

O,  what  a  fool,  to  slander  thus  my  master !    [ Aside. 

I  Exit  running. 

OLIVER. 

Ho,  fellow,  stop  ! 

(Enter  CALAYNOS.) 

CALAYNOS. 

Why  do  you  call  so  loud  t 

OLIVER. 

I  held  discourse  with  one  of  those  poor  knaves, 
Whom  the  world  forms  to  play  at  foot-ball  with — 
A  rascal  by  compulsion,  not  by  nature ; 
With  something  good  beneath  his  villany, 
Turned  all  awry  by  outward  circumstance. 
The  knave  had  much  intelligence  and  wit, 


52  CALAYNOS. 

Appeared  acquainted  with  this  mazy  town, 

And  seemed  to  know  where  good  Don  Luis  dwells; 

But  ere  I  pressed  him  past  an  empty  hint, 

The  fellow  fled  as  if  a  fiend  pursued. 

CALAYNOS. 

So,  then,  you  have  not  found  Don  Luis'  house. 
What  hint  gave  your  companion  of  my  friend  ''. 

OLIVER. 

He  pointed  widely  down  yon  narrow  street, 
But  to  no  single  house.     I  must  inquire. 

CALAYNOS. 

Come,  I  will  aid  you ;  thus  may  we  save  time : 
For  I  am  sick  of  every  thing  I  see. 
In  this  huge  city  virtue  is  close  housed, 
And  dares  not  show  her  face  for  very  shame  ; 
While  vice  and  folly,  like  two  brazen  drunkards. 
Reel  up  and  down  the  streets  from  morn  till  eve, 
Bullying  the  peaceful  passers  with  their  threats. 
Pah  !  what  a  purge  of  country  air  't  will  need 
To  drive  this  festering  sickness  from  my  brain  ! 


A  TRAGEDY.  53 

I  nigh  had  fallen  in  hatred  with  mankind, 
By  looking,  with  too  curious  eyes,  upon 
The  wrecked  and  rotting  souls  that  here  abound. 
We  must  shut  eyes  and  ears,  good  Oliver, 
Or  we'll  go  home  two  railing  misanthropes. 
Come,  let  us  on ;  and,  when  we  find  my  friend, 
We  will  have  plucked  at  least  one  precious  pearl 
From  out  this  sea  of  misery  and  vice  !         [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 
A  room  in  DON  Luis'  house.     DON  Luis  alone. 

DON  LUIS. 

All  the  supply  of  gold  Calaynos  sent, 
At  length  has  dwindled  to  a  single  coin — 
Curse  on  my  luck  !  the  cards  will  never  change. 
By  heaven,  I  swear  !  if  ever  I  grow  rich — 
By  some  unthought  of  chance,  unborn  as  yet — 
I'll  shun  all  gambling  from  that  very  hour. 


54  CALAYNOS. 

But,  being  ruined,  I  must  needs  play  on — 

For  what  wise  gamester  ever  stopped  in  loss  ? — 

Hoping,  by  lucky  change,  to  win  all  back 

With  double  interest — fortune's  usury. 

'Tis  villanous  !  for  me,  a  gentleman, 

To  be  thus  kenneled  like  a  dangerous  cur  ; 

Shut  up  by  day,  to  prowl  abroad  at  night, 

And  forage  scantly  on  my  neighbour's  fold. 

[Knocking. 

Who's  there  ? 

SOTO.   (Without.} 

Unbar  the  door.     'Tis  I,  my  lord. 
(DoN  Luis  opens  the  door.     Enter  SOTO.) 

DON  LUIS. 

You,  Soto  ?    Pray  what  brings  you  back  so  soon  ? 

SOTO. 

Good  news,  my  lord,  up  to  your  highest  wish  ! 
The  wealthy  friend,  of  whom  you  lately  spoke, 
Is  in  Seville,  and  seeking  for  your  house. 

DON  LUIS. 

Why  not  conduct  him  hither,  dull-brained  dog  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  55 

SOTO. 

And  mar  your  plot !  No,  I'm  too  old  for  that. 
I  threw  him  off' the  scent,  and  ran  with  speed 
To  warn  you,  senior,  how  to  take  the  man. 
You  told  me  that  you  two  so  long  had  been, 
By  place  and  time  oblivious,  unknit, 
That  he  no  spot  within  your  memory  held. 
Now,  by  some  words  his  secretary  dropped, 
And  by  the  outward  bearing  of  the  man, 
I  deem  him  one  for  noble  actions  fit — 
A  generous  mind,  above  suspicion  quite ; 
Yet  with  an  eye  that  looks  through  outward  things 
Into  the  soul,  if  once  aroused  to  doubt : 
Therefore  be  wary. 

DON  LUIS. 

Fear  me  not,  good  Soto. 
You've  shown  a  shrewdness  that  I  dreamed  not  of. 


But  above  all,  beware  the  man  of  ink — 
A  kind  of  humble  friend  to  great  Calaynos  ; 


56  CALAYNOS. 

More  of  a  worldly  turn  than  is  his  master : 

He  might  walk  safely  o'er  the  roughest  path, 

While  his  lord  tripped  by  gazing  at  the  stars. 

You  may  betray  the  lord  before  his  eyes, 

But  not  the  secretary,  on  my  life.  [Knocking. 

DON  LUTS. 
Heard  you  a  knocking  ?     To  the  window,  quick  ! 

SOTO.      (Looking  out.) 

They've  come,  the  two,  his  lordship  and  the  scribe : 
Looking  like  hares  before  a  tempting  trap. — 
Shall  I  go  down,  and  let  the  conies  in  ? 

DON  LUIS. 

Ay, quickly — shut  your  mouth,  you  grinning  knave' 

[Exit  SOTO. 
Now  for  another  step  in  villany — 

Pshaw,  pshaw,  no  scruples  !    I  have  left  the  path 
Which  leads  to  good,  so  far  from  where  I  stand, 
That  all  return  is  worse  than  hopeless  now. 
What  if  I  should  confess  ?     Would  he  forgive  1 
No,  he  would  shun  me  like  a  spotted  lazar. 
What  tells  me  to  confess  1 — Some  mocking  fiend, 


A    TRAGEDY.  57 

That  fain  would  snatch  the  prize  within  my  grasp. 

It  cannot  be — I  was  not  formed  for  good  ; 

To  what  fate  orders  I  must  needs  submit : 

The  sin  not  mine,  but  His  who  framed  me  thus — 

Not  in  my  will  but  in  my  nature  lodged. 

Since  I'm  a  devil,  I've  no  choice  of  fate ; 

But  must  achieve  the  purpose  of  my  being. 

Therefore  away,  ye  cheating  phantasies ! 

That  would  decoy  me  from  the  thing  I'd  clutch, 

Then  leave  me  poor,  and  wickeder  than  ever. 

He  is  a  fool  who  acts  not  for  himself; 

A  worse  than  fool,  who  chases  airy  virtue, 

And  gains  but  knocks  and  hatred  for  reward. 

Yes,  I  will  grasp  the  stable  goods  of  life, 

Nor  care  how  foul  the  hand  that  does  the  deed. 

Hark  !  they  are  coming — actor,  to  thy  part ! 

(Enter  CALAYNOS,  OLIVER,  and  SOTO.  DON  Luis  and  CALAYNOS 
embrace  apart.     OLIVER  and  SOTO  advance,") 

OLIVER. 

You  here  !  and  pray,  my  friend,  how    came  you 
hither  ? 

6 


58  CALAYNOS. 

SOTO. 

This  is  our  house ;  and  there  my  master  stands, 
Doing  his  duty  to  your  lord  Calaynos. 
The  house  is  small,  and  scant  of  furniture ; 
But  you'll  find  rich  apartments  in  our  hearts, 
Where  you  may  lodge  until  the  walls  decay. 

OLIVER. 

What,  he  your  lord  !     You're  surely  jesting  me  ; 
You  made  me  think,  but  half  an  hour  ago, 
Your  lord  the  chiefest  villain  in  Seville  ; 
(/ailed  him  a  common  gamester ;  said  he  lived 
By  cheatery  of  all  kinds  and  qualities  ! 
But  sure  Don  Luis  is  a  worthy  man, 
You  a  deceiving  trickster. 

SOTO. 

So  I  said  : 

But  I'm  the  greatest  liar  in  Seville ; 
A  bastard  born,  and  therefore  false  by  nature. 
My  family,  sir,  before  me,  all  were  liars  ; 
'Tis  an  infection  that  invades  our  blood  ; 


A  TRAGEDY.  59 

For  which  I'm  bound  no  more,  than  is  a  king 

For  the  bright  crown  that  tops  his  august  brows — 

Coming  by  course  of  nature,  not  desert ! 

I  love  to  lie ;  'tis  nought  but  romance  making, 

Spoken,  not  writ — for  I'm  too  poor  to  print. 

I  could  tell  tales  would  make  Quevedo  stare — 

But  not  malicious  ones  ;  and  if  believed, 

How  proud  am  I,  as  proving  truth  to  nature. 

I  was  but  practising  on  you  rny  art — 

See  how  you  stare,  what  admiration  show  ! 

Here's  glory  for  an  author,  quits  my  pains. 

Yet  have  I  done  my  lord  no  grain  of  harm, 

Now  all  the  lie  is  out.     Poor,  honest  man  ! — 

Why,  sir,  his  honesty  brought  on  these  straits. 

OMVER. 

Cease,  you  mad  dog;  perchance  you're  lying  now. 

SOTO. 

Not  I ;  you  here  may  trust  me  without  fear ; 
Beneath  this  roof  I  do  not  dare  to  lie. 
True  as  the  book — I'm  ever  on  the  watch.      [Aside. 


60  CALAYNOS. 

(Soro  retires.) 

OLIVER. 

I  half  suspect,  this  fellow  told  the  truth 
When  first  we  met.     I  do  not  like  the  looks 
Of  him  he  calls  his  master,  yon  Don  Luis. 
Then  the  unnatural  boast  about  his  lying — 
It  may  be  so  ;  for  I  have  known  some  men 
Who'd  boast  of  crime,  as  if  they  spoke  of  virtue ; 
And  hang  their  sins  out,  as  for  ornament, 
Merely  to  make  the  wondering  audience  stare. 
The  morbid  wish  to  be  observed  of  men, 
Makes  heroes  of  our  dying  criminals, 
And  adds  a  goad  to  crime.     But  yet  I'll  watch ; — 
This  limping  story  does  not  satisfy.  [Retires. 

(CALAYNOS  and  DON  Luis  advance.) 

CALAYNOS. 

So,  poor  companion,  thou  art  hunted  down 
By  these  base  creditors  ;  thy  house  besieged, 
Thy  actions  spied,  sweet  liberty  infringed — 
God's  very  air  thy  troubled  bosom  breathes, 
Shut  up  in  this  close  mansion.     Why  not  write, 


A   TRAGEDY.  01 

Ere  hardship  fell  upon  thee?     Why  not  fly, 
And  seek  me  out  among  my  native  hills, 
Where  I  with  open  arms  had  welcomed  thee  f 

DON  LUIS. 

It  was  with  fear  that  I  disclosed  my  state, 
Half  doubting  this  return  from  even  ihee: 
For  we  were  sundered  in  the  May  of  youth, 
Nor  since  have  held  communion.     Ah,  I  thought 
Thou,  like  my  other  friends,  hadst  callous  grown 
'Neath  the  petrific  waves  of  hardening  time. 

CALAYNOS. 

How  thou  didst  wrong  me  ! 

DON  LUIS. 

Wronged  thee,  noble  man  ! 
Yes,  I  can  ne'er  forgive  the  thoughts  I  bore 
'Gainst  thee,  and  'gainst  the  race  of  man  entire. 
For  I  have  stood  at  bay  before  the  world, 
Facing  the  wolves  that  wellnigh  pulled  me  down  ; 
Until  I  deemed  mankind  a  hungry  pack, 
Eager  to  suck  their  wounded  brother's  blood. 


62  CALAYNOS. 

But  thou  hast  come  to  purge  me  of  my  gall, 
To  heal  my  wounded  heart,  to  dry  my  tears, 
And  plant  within  my  soul  a  love  for  man, 
Which,   by   Heaven's   grace,   wrong    never   shall 
uproot. 

CALAYNOS. 

Dost  thou  remember,  Luis,  when  we  sat 

Remote  from  men<yet  planned  to  mankind  good  ? 

What  dreams  we  dreamed,  what  projects  grave  we 

formed, 

To  guide  our  lives  when  we  to  manhood  came  ? 
And  thou  wert  ever  first  in  these  designs — 
Formed  broader  projects — gave  a  greater  scope 
To  thy  sweet  fancy,  than  thy  backward  friend : 
And  wast  thou  first  to  plan  these  goodly  deeds, 
Yet  last  to  bear  them  out  ?     Ah  me,  I  fear 
The  sprouts  of  fancy  most  luxuriant  shoot 
In    shallowest    soils;    and,    when    most    forward 

seeming, 
Oft-times  but  weak  of  root ! 


A  TRAGEDY.  03 

DON   MHS. 

It  so  has  seemed. 

Calaynos,  hadst  thou  borne  what  I  have  borne. 
Thou  wouldst  not  be  so  gracious  to  mankind. 
Thou  hast  been  nursed  in  wealth  and  luxury, 
Thy  every  wish  been  father  to  the  deed  ; 
Thou,  from  o'erflowing  means,  hast  freely  given 
That  which  it  cost  thee  nothing  to  impart : 
But  I,  through  bad  men's  acts,  have  fallen   from 

wealth, 

Nor  know  one  day  if  I  may  feed  the  next ; 
So  that  the  coin  which  I  a  beggar  give, 
A  moment  wavers  'tween  his  need  and  mine. 

CALAYNOS. 

Luis,  you  know  not  of  the  years  I've  spent, 

In  patient  study  and  unwearying  search, 

To  learn  the  wants  of  man.     I  have  digged  down 

Into  the  very  roots  and  springs  of  things  : 

All  moral  systems,  all  philosophies, 

All  that  the  poet  or  historian  wrote, 


64  CALAYNOS. 

All  hints  from  lighter  books,  all  common  sayings— 
The  current  coin  of  wisdom  'mong  mankind — 
Time-hallowed   truths,  and  lies  which   seem    like 

truths, 

I  have  turned  o'er,  before  my  mental  eye, 
Seeking  a  guide  might  lead  me  on  to  good ; 
And  find,  the  chiefest  springs  of  happiness 
Are  faith  in  Heaven,  and  love  to  all  mankind. 

DON  LUIS. 

This  is  a  noble  creed,  above  my  reach — 
A  creed  for  one  in  ease  and  affluence  ; 
Better  in  speculation  than  in  deed. 

CALAYNOS. 

Not  so ;  and  thou  shalt  go,  poor  brain-sick  man, 
Far  from  these  scenes,  to  heal  thy  wounded  mind. 
Beneath  my  roof  shalt  thou  forget  thy  cares ; 
And  time's  soft  plumes  will  brush  thy  tears  away : 
While  I  within  thee  may  implant  a  faith, 
Shall  bear  thee  safely  through  this  faithless  world. 


A  TRAGEDY.  05 

DON   LUIS. 

Thou  art  too  good  to  one  not  worth  thy  love. 

CALAYNOS. 

Leave  that  to  me.     But  of  the  creditors  ; 
I  long  to  stuff  their  hungry  maws  with  gold. 
Send  for  them  quickly. 

DON  LUIS. 

Nay,  I'll  go  myself. 
A  walk  to  me  is  a  rare  luxury. 

CALAYNOP. 

Well  then,  we'll  seek  them. 

DON  LUIS. 

Nay,  I'll  bring  them  here. 

Repose  awhile ;  I  will  return  with  speed. 

I  Exit  hastily. 

OLIVER.  (Advancing.") 
How  fell  Don  Luis  to  such  poverty  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Bv  the  connivance  of  some  common  knaves, 


66  CALAYNOS. 

Who  gained  his  name  to  certain  bonds  and  deeds 
Of  a  vile  tool  of  theirs,  that  played  his  friend. 

SOTO. 

Two   scurvy    knaves,   two   knaves   of  clubs    and 

spades, 
Took  the  last  real  he  could  call  his  own.       [ Aside. 

OLIVER.   (Drawing  CALAYNOS  away  from  SOTO.) 
This  shows  a  lack  of  wisdom  on  his  part. 

CALAYNOS. 

Nay,  Oliver,  it  shows  a  trusting  mind, 
Pure  from  suspicion,  a  most  guileless  mind. 
He  is  a  man  whose  loving  heart  was  bruised 
By  acts  of  one,  whom  most  of  all  he  loved. 
For  this,  I  quite  forgive  his  bitterness. 

OLIVER. 

A  man  like  him,  reared  in  a  crafty  town, 
With  his  acuteness,  was  too  easily  ta'en 
By  a  most  shallow  and  most  bare-faced  trick. 

CALAYNOS. 

Suspect  you  aught  ?     What,  sir,  you  do  suspect  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  67 

« 
OLIVER. 

And  I  have  grounds. 

CALAYNOS. 

Rash  boy,  restrain  your  tongue  ! 
Or  that  might  follow  which  you  may  repent. 
I  tell  you  he  is  pure  as  yon  bright  sun. 
Knaves  flourish  and  grow  rich ;  look   round  you 

here ; 
Does  this  poor  house  show   aught  of  prosperous 

crime  ? 

If  he  were  wealthy,  and  o'erblown  with  pride, 
I'd  listen  to  the  silly  words  you  speak. 
I  knew  him  from  a  child,  you  catch  a  glance  ; 
And  yet  you  tell  me,  as  a  trader  would, 
This  gold  is  counterfeit !     These  words  of  yours 
Savour  of  cunning  low,  and  not  of  wisdom. 
Yet  never  seek  to  sprinkle  in  mine  ear 
Your  worldly  gall !     What  I  will  do,  I  will  ! 
Nor  you,  and  all  the  world — 


08  CALAYNOS. 

• 

OLIVER. 

My  lord,  my  lord  ! 

t'ALAYNO?. 

Pardon  me,  Oliver  ;  thy  wish  was  good, 

And  towards  my  interest  aimed,  though  shot  awry 

Think  not  of  what  I  said.     Let  us  go  in  : 

There  is  a  couch  ;  I  would  repose  awhile. 

[Exeunt  CALAYNOS  and  OLIVKK. 

SOTO. 

Lord  !  what  an  actor  has  my  master  grown  ! 
It  takes  a  gentleman  to  lie  complete. 
I'm  but  a  blunderer  to  this  mighty  man ; 
Who  lies  by  rule,  is  armed  at  every  point, 
Ready  for  each  conjecture.     'Tis  a  system 
To  which  an  humble  man  can  ne'er  attain. 
I  do  not  like  that  secretary's  air : 
He  is  too  shrewd  ;  and  has  a  busy  brain, 
That  ever  seeks  for  plots  and  deep  deceits 
In  all  he  looks  at.     For  a  rustic  born, 
The  fellow's  wise  enough  ;  but  what  a  fool, 


A  TRAGEDY.  69 

What  a  poor,  generous,  trusting  dolt  his  lord ! 

Here's  a  fine  subject  for  the  Don  to  fleece  ! 

Why,  we'll  grow  rich  on  him,  regain  our  state, 

And  flourish  bravely,  as  we  did  of  old. — 

But  I  must  warn  Don  Luis,  once  again, 

To  keep  an  eye  upon  the  cunning  scribe.        [Exit. 


SCENE  III. 

A  street  in  front  of  the  Exchange.  Enter  four  USURERS,  meeting. 

FIRST  USURER. 

What  is  the  news  on  'Change  ? 

SECOND  USURER. 

Of  great  import. 

'Tis  said  the  Court  to-morrow  leaves  Seville ; 
When  all  the  chiefest  gentlemen  of  Spain, 
Nobles  and  commons,  follow  it  of  course. 

THIRD  USURER. 

Half  of  our  business  gone  !     That's  news  enough 

7 


70  CALAYNOS. 

To  break  one's   heart.     How    slow   are   fortunes 

made ! 

Here  I've  been  labouring,  for  a  score  of  years, 
With  scarce  a  pittance  for  my  daily  toil. 

SECOND  USURER. 

O,  that  comes  well  from  you,  who  could  nigh  buy 
A  noble  dukedom  with  one  half  your  means. 

FOURTH  USURER. 

They  say  the  plague  is  coming  here  again — 
That  the  French  king  is  to  a  war  inclined — 
I  heard  Don  Luis  sawed  his  head  half  off, 
With  a  dull  knife,  to  cheat  us  creditors. 

FIRST  USURER. 

That's  sure  a  lie;  for  here  Don  Luis  comes. 

THIRD  USURER. 

Nor  tries  to  shun  us !  What  does  this  portend  ? 
(Enter  DON  Luis.) 

DON  LUIS. 
Good  day  my  friends. 


A   TRAGEDY.  71 

USURERS. 

Good  day,  good  senior. 

DON  LUIS. 

My  friends,  I  do  not  wish  you  should  bear  loss, 

By  the  large  loans  which  you  have  each  advanced; 

So,  by  your  leave,  to-day  I'll  pay  the  debts, 

On  slight  conditions  which  you'll  not  deny. 

I  have  a  friend  in  town,  of  ample  wealth, 

Who'll  settle  all,  without  a  real's  loss, 

If  you  keep  silent ;  nor,  by  word  or  deed, 

Say  aught  of  me,  or  why  I  raised  the  loans, 

Or  how  I  brought  myself  to  poverty. 

And  should  he  ask  for  what  I  owe  these  sums, 

You'll  say  that  for  a  friend  a  bond  I  signed, 

Whose  treacherous  flight  makes  me  responsible. 

Are  you  agreed  1     Say  yes  or  no :  if  no, 

Your  only  chance  for  pay  is  lost. 

FIRST  USURER. 

My  lord, 
You  are  too  sudden  ;  give  us  time  for  thought. 


72  CALAYNOS. 

DON  LUIS.   (Apart  to  SECOND  USURER.) 
Come  hither,  sir.     You  are  of  gentle  blood, 
And,  therefore,  know  what  feelings  cling  to  rank  : 
Nor  would  you  shame,  by  an  incautious  word, 
A  gentleman  who  loves  you  for  your  birth. 
I  trust  your  honour;  knowing  that  I  lean 
On  that  which  might  uphold  a  monarch's  throne. 
You'll  not  betray  the  secret  which  I  leave, 
With  purest  faith,  entrusted  to  your  hands. 
A  breath  of  yours  might  mar  my  state  for  aye, 
And  blot  a  noble  family  from  the  land, 
To  which  you  are  of  kin — though  distantly. 

SKCOND    USURER. 

Racks  shall  not  wring  it  from  me ! 

DON  LUIS. 

I'm  content. 

The  pompous  fool !  his  race  cleaned  boots  for  ages. 

[Aside. 

SECOND  USURER.    (Aside.} 

There's  birth  and  breeding — there's  a  gentleman  ! 

Called  me  his  cousin — He  may  trust  till  doom  ! 

[  Retires. 


A  TRAGEDY.  73 

DON  LUIS  (to  FIRST  USURER). 
I'd  speak  a  word  apart  with  you,  my  friend. 

FIRST  USURER. 

What  would  your  lordship  ? 

DON  LUIS. 

You're  a  prudent  man  ; 

And  would  not  lose  your  loan  by  empty  words — 
Words  which  may  do  me  harm,  but  you  no  good : 
Therefore  if  you  desire  to  use  the  gold, 
I  charge  you  give  no  hint  of  my  affairs 
To  him  who  pays  the  debt.     Men  call  you  wise, 
And  say  you  gained  your  wealth  by  strictest  silence. 

FIRST  USURER. 

Trust  me,  my  lord  ;  'tis  not  my  wont  to  prate 
When  any  monied  business  is  concerned.    [Retires. 

DON  LUIS  (to  THIRD  USURER). 
Hither,  you  jackal !  List  to  what  I  say  ! 
If  you  reveal,  why  I'm  in  debt  to  you, 
Or  say  a  word  of  interest  or  its  rate, 
Or  how  I  raised  the  loan,  I'll  blow  a  storm 


74  CALAYNOS. 

Shall  drive  you  naked  from  Seville  to-night  ! 
There's  a  young  nobleman,  a  gay  Don  Juan, 
With  whom  in  trade  you  were  concerned  of  late — 
Look  to  't !  And  if  you  dare  to  blab  a  word, 
His  father,  old  Alfonso,  shall  know  more, 
Before  to-night,  than  what  he  dreamed  this  morn  ! 

THIRD  USURER. 

Good  heavens  !  you  know — 

DON    LUIS. 

Nought  that  I  wish  to  tell. 
I  have  the  whip-hand  of  you — by  the  gods, 
I'll  make  you  smoke  if  you  prove  restive  now  ! 

THIRD  USURER. 

Fear  not,  my  lord. 

DON  LUIS. 

Nay,  nay  ;  fear  me,  you  leech  ! 

THIRD  USURER.    (Aside.) 

How  knows  he  this  ?  (Retires.) 


A   TRAGEDY.  75 

DON  LUIS  (to  FOURTH  USURER). 

Come  here,  you  trembling  slave  ! 
If  you  by  word,  or  look,  or  act,  or  sign, 
Or  hesitating  speech,  or  stammering  tongue, 
Wise   looks,   or   shrugs — which   seem   to   hide   a 

thought — 

Give  any  token  that  you  know  me  else 
Than  as  a  poor  but  worthy  gentleman, 
Who  suffers  through  misfortune,  not  through  fault — 
If  you  act  thus,  by  yon  bright  heaven,  I  swear 
I'll  drive  my  dagger  halfway  down  your  throat ! 

FOURTH  USURER. 

Good  lord,  you  would  not  kill  me! 

DON  LUIS. 

Kill  you,  rogue  ? 

Ay,  and  throw  out  your  carcass  to  the  dogs; 
Thinking  I'd  done  the  world  a  charity ! 

FOURTH  USURER. 

Dear  senior,  I'll  be  quiet  as  a  mouse. 


76  CALAYNOS. 

DON  LUIS. 

Look  to  yourself;  my  eye  will  be  on  you. 

(Turns  to  all  the  USURERS.) 
Follow  me,  masters ;  if  you  have  resolved 
To  act  as  I  proposed. 

USURERS. 

We  have,  my  lord.     [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 
A  room  in  DON  Luis'  house.     CALAYNOS  and  OLIVER. 

CALAYNOS. 

What,  not  yet  rid  of  your  suspicious  thoughts  ? 
Pray  cast  them  off,  as  unbecoming  things, 
Unworthy  to  consume  the  idle  time 
Which  you  will  waste  in  entertaining  them. 
Suspicious  men  are  like  those  slinking  curs, 
That  whine  and  fly,  if  we  but  show  the  lash, 
And  suffer  torture  ere  they  feel  a  blow. 
If  you  will  nourish  them,  I  promise  you 


A  TRAGEDY.  77 

Enough  of  food  to  rear  your  nurslings  on ; 
For  you  will  strain  and  twist  his  every  act, 
To  confirmation  of  your  worst  suspicions. 
A  falling  straw  shall  make  you  swear  him  false, 
An  idle  word  shall  damn  him  past  reclaim  ; 
Though  he,  poor  man,  be  innocent  of  crime, 
And  all  the  guilt  be  harboured  in  your  breast. 
I'd  as  soon  be  a  conscience-hunted  felon, 
As  one  pursued  by  packs  of  phantasies  ! 

OLIVER. 

My  lord,  for  you,  I'll  try  to  love  your  friend  ; 
But  you  will  pardon,  if  with  poor  success. 
When  first  I  saw  him,  a  cold  shudder  ran 
From   head  to  foot ;    the  while   my  faint  heart 

thumped, 

Like  a  great  weight,  against  its  prison  house. 
And  when  he  strained  you  in  his  close  embrace, 
I'd  rather  've  seen  a  tiger  mount  your  breast. 
You  half  believe  in  these  antipathies, 
Which  tell,  like  instinct,  of  some  coming  ill ; 


78  CALAYNOS. 

For  you  are  firm  of  faith  in  sympathies, 
Which  prove,  if  they  exist,  their  opposites. 

CALAYNOS. 

Cease,  Oliver ;  we  cannot  harmonise. 
I  will  not  doubt  him  till  I  find  him  false. 

OLIVER. 

Will  give  me  leave  to  ask  the  creditors, 
Unknown  to  him,  how  in  their  debt  he  grew  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Yes,  for  your  own  repose ;  I'd  have  you  friends  ; 

If  that  will  satisfy,  you  have  my  leave. 

Now  to  your  writings ;  here  Don  Luis  comes. 

(Enter  DON  Luis  and  the  USURERS.) 

DON  LUIS  (apart  to  CALAYNOS). 
Here  are  the  creditors  ;  pray  treat  them  fair : 
'Twill    but    make   foes   to   chide   them   for  their 

wrongs ;  ^ 

And,  as  thou  know'st,  I've  enemies  enough. 


A  TRAGEDY.  79 

* 

CALAYNOS. 

As  you  think  fit.     Come  hither,  gentlemen, 
And  give  your  papers  to  my  secretary ; 

He  will  write  orders  for  their  settlement. 

[To  the  USURERS. 

(CALAYNOS  and  DON  Luis  talk  apart.     OLIVER  seats  himself  at 
a  table.} 

OLIVER. 

This  is  a  large  amount  for  one  man's  bond.  [Aside. 

What  usury  did  good  Don  Luis  pay  ? 

[  To  the  USURERS. 

FIRST   USURER. 

'Twas  not  by  usury  he  came  in  debt. 
'Twas  by  a  bond  which  he  endorsed  for  one, 
Who  raised  the  gold,  and  then  proved  false  to  him. 

OLIVER. 
But  where's  the  bond?  When  paid  't  must  be  erased. 

FIRST  USURER  (apart  to  the  others). 
The  devil !  here's  a  strait !  What  shall  we  say  1 

DON  LUIS.   (Advancing) 
What  is  the  matter  with  you,  gentlemen  ? 


80  CALAYNOS. 

•• 

FIRST  USURER. 

Senior,  the  secretary  wants  your  bond, 
Which  we  forgot  to  bring. 

DON  LUIS. 

Nay,  nay,  not  so  ; 

'Twas  put  into  my  hands  as  we  came  here. 
You  gave  it,  did  you  not?  (To  FOURTH  USURER.) 

FOURTH  USURER. 

I  did,  my  lord. 
(DoN  Luis  retires.) 

OLIVER. 

Baffled  !  and  yet  'tis  strange  !   These  creditors 
Take  up  their  pay,  as  if  they  felt  no  sharne  ; 

Which,  were  the  action  guilty,  they  should  show. 

I  Aside. 

(Turns  to  the  FOURTH  USURER.) 
Why,  sirrah,  what  a  cursed  knave  are  you, 
To  grasp  your  cheatings  with  so  meek  a  face  ! 
You've  done  a  deed  might  bring  you  to  the  oar. 
'  You,  and  your  fellows,  should  march  two  by  two, 


A  TRAGEDY.  81 

With  iron  chains  around  your  villain  necks, 

To  seek  the  hulks — by  dint  of  conscience  driven. — 

You  slimy  swindler — you  vile  cozener  ! 

FOURTH  USURER. 

Why  is  it  wrong  to  lend — 

(DON  Luis  advances,  playing  with  his  dagger  hilt.") 
to  lend — to  lend — 

OLIVER. 
To  lend  what,  rascal ? 

DON  LUIS. 

Lend  my  house  your  room. 

[To  FOURTH  USURER. 

Have  you  not  paid  these  men,  my  gentle  friend  ? 

[To  OLIVER. 

OLIVER. 

I  have,  sir. 

DON  LUIS  (to  USURERS). 
Gentlemen,  you  may  depart.    [Exeunt  USURERS. 

OLIVER.   (Aside.} 
Here  was  a  struggle  ;  but  he  bore  it  off; 

8 


82  CALAYNOS. 

A  moment  more,  that  silly  knave  had  blabbed. 
Yon  man  is  guilty,  though  I  have  no  proof. 
I'll  seem  his  friend,  but  watch  him  like  a  foe — 

Heaven  grant,  thereby,  I  keep  my  lord  from  harm  ! 

[Retires. 

(CALAYNOS  and  DON  Luis  advance.) 

DON  LUIS. 

My  noble  friend,  what  service  hast  thou  done 
To  one  unworthy  of  thy  least  regard ! 
/How  like  a  dew,  thy  gentle  acts  have  fallen 
On  that  dry  waste,  my  scarred  and  thirsting  heart ! 
O,  may  the  blessings  of  a  grateful  mind 
Rise  up  in  prayers  to  Heaven,  like  evening  mists, 
To  fall  on  thee  in  balmy  freshening  showers, 
Dropped   from    His   hand   who   smiles   on  kindly- 
deeds  ! 

I'll  love  my  former  sufferings  from  this  hour ; 
Since,  through  my  pain,  thou  hast  such   rapture 
wrought. 

CALAYNOS. 

Cease,  cease !  Thy  words  have  overpaid  the  act ; 


A  TRAGEDY.  83 

Tf  thou  proceed'st,  them  plungest  me  in  debt ; 
Such  gratitude  doth  shame  my  blushing  gold. 
But,  Luis,  to  this  corner  of  thy  heart, 
Warmed  with  the  heat  of  friendship's  holy  flame, 
Take  not  thy  friend,  unless  thou'lt  take  mankind ; 
And,  for  the  love  of  one,  love  all  his  race  : — 
Many  are  worthier  of  regard  than  I. 

DON  LUIS. 

I  think  not  so  :  but  thou  shalt  use  my  heart 
As  a  poor  mansion,  over  which  thou  rulest : 
If  so  thou  will'st,  call  in  thy  dearest  friends ; 
They  shall  be  welcome,  though  they're  all  mankind. 

CALAYNOS. 

And  now  make  ready  to  depart  with  me. — 
I  long  to  have  thee  breathe  my  native  air, 
And  share  such  pleasures  as  my  home  affords. 

DON  LUIS. 

An  hour,  and  I'll  be  ready.  [Exit. 

CALAYNOS. 

Oliver. 


84  CALAYNOS. 

OLIVER. 

My  lord. 

CALAYNOS. 

Collect  the  train ;  we  must  be  gone. 

OLIVER. 
How  soon  1 — To-day  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Within  an  hour,  at  most. 

OLIVER. 
It  can  be  done. 

CALAYNOS. 

Then  haste ;  your  time  is  brief.    [Exit. 

OLIVER. 

Confusion !     He  departs  with  such  hot  speed, 
I'll  not  have  time  to  see  the  creditors. 
I  purposed  to  untwist  this  tangled  skein — 
To  free  the  Don,  or  to  confirm  his  guilt : 
But  this  unthought  of  haste  o'erturns  my  scheme, 
And   leaves  me  wandering  'mid  my  doubts  and 
fears.  [Exit. 


A  TRAGEDY.  85 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.     A  room  in  CALAYNOS'  Castle.    DoSfA  ALDA. 

DONA  ALDA. 

r  O,  weary,  weary  days,  how  slow  ye  pass ! 
Flow  on,  flow  on,  and  bring  Calaynos  home  ! 
Yet  why  should  I  desire  my  lord's  return  1 
His  presence  makes  small  difference  to  me  : 
Shut  up  in  his  dim  study,  pondering  o'er 
The  yellow  leaves  of  the  most  learned  dead, 
Short  time  he  gives  to  me ;.  and  when  he  comes, 
With  stately  step  and  quiet,  solemn  eyes, 
He  chills  the  joy  that  from  my  heart  would  burst, 
With  a  most  dreary  smile,  near  like  a  sigh. 
Yet  I  do  love  him,  or  I  think  I  do — 
Pale,  melancholy  man,  thy  godlike  mind 
Was  rather  formed  for  multitudes  to  praise, 
Than  for  a  woman's  individual  love 
8* 


86  CALAYNOS. 

To  spend  its  wayward  feelings  on,  unawedv 

No  change,  no  change !  Can  I  be  happy  here — 

I,  running  o'er  with  the  hot  blood  of  youth, 

Eager  for  action,  sick  of  dull  repose, 

That  rusts  my  spirit  with  unburnished  rest  ? — 

I  happy  !  plodding  an  unvarying  round 

Of  sullen  days,  that  slowly  crawl  to  years  1 — 

My  life  is  like  a  dammed  and  sluggish  pool, 

Topped  with  a  scum  of  foul,  green  discontent, 

Which  loads  my  breast,  and  keeps  the  sunlight  oti". 

{A  horn  sounds.     Enter  MARTINA.) 
What  means  that  sound  1 

MARTINA. 

The  warder  blew  the  blast ; 
Your  lord  and  train  approach  the  castle  gate. 
What  quick  return  from  dear  Seville  he  makes  : 
Had  I  been  he,  I'd  staid  from  home  a  year. 

DONA  ALDA. 

'Tis  a  strange  taste,  his  love  for  these  old  walls : 
He  oft  has  said,  he  passes  not  an  hour, 
Which  he  calls  happy,  when  away  from  them. 


A   TRAGEDY.  87 

MARTINA. 

Lord !  lady,  what  a  speech  !  Were  he  well  bred, 
He'd  say,  from  you  no  happy  hour  was  passed. 
You  were  included  in  the  walls,  I  deem, 
With  sundry  other  scraps  of  furniture — 
I  hate  a  man  who  rolls  in  self-content, 
And  needs  no  one  to  help  his  happiness ! 

DONA  ALDA. 

You  hate  my  lord? 

MARTINA. 

O  no,  my  lady  dear. 
I  spoke,  as  we  unthinking  women  do, 
In  o'erstrained  phrase,  that  means  not  what  it  says. 

DONA  ALDA. 

In  the  brief  letter,  I  last  night  received, 

He  writes,  a  much-loved  friend  returns  with  him, 

To  share  what  sports  our  castle  can  afford. 

MARTINA. 

What  sports  !    What  sports? — To  see  the  half-bred 
Moors 


88  CALAYNOS. 

Dance,  to  their  pagan  drums,  on  Baptist's  day  ; 
And  howl  and  rave,  as  if  the  maw  of  hell 
Had  cast  its  devils  up  to  mar  our  earth ! 
These  are  the  only  sports.     The  holidays, 
Except  Saint  John's,  go  off  with  moody  shows, 
Which  wellnigh  make  a  Christian  woman  weep. 
Who  is  the  friend  '! 

DONA  ALDA. 

I  know  not :  a  young  man  ; 
But  yet  not  named. — How  old  do  you  suppose  him  ? 

MARTINA. 

Thirty  in  years,  and  yet  a  century  old ! 

A  heart  dried  up,  like  one  of  Egypt's  mummies, 

All  balmed  and  spiced  in  rare  philosophy ; 

A  spindle-shanked,  lean-visaged,  red-eyed  youth, 

With  a  most  rickety  and  crooked  back, 

That  got  its  set  o'er  Plato  ;  one  who  fears 

To  look  a  pretty  woman  in  the  face, 

Who  would  begin  his  prayers  if  one  came  near, 


A  TRAGEDY.  89 

Who  with  his  senses  has  not  lived  a  day, 
Yet  ages  with  his  brains. 

DONA  ALDA. 

And  I  suppose, 

A  man  much  like  my  lord,  of  earnest  mien, 
Of  grave  and  reverend  looks — incarnate  wisdom 
Made  manifest  and  pure  in  earthly  form — 
A  man  without  a  sin,  or  fault,  or  stain  : 
Such  must  he  be,  whom  lord  Calaynos  loves. 

MARTINA. 

Would  he  had  brought  a  gallant  gentleman, 

Such  as  adorns  the  splendid  Court  of  Spain ! 

A  man  all  smiles  and  service  to  us  women  ; 

Faultless  in  dress,  with  a  light,  dashing  air 

That  wins  his  way  to  every  lady's  heart ; 

A  man  of  wit,  in  conversation  apt, 

Ready  in  trifles,  with  a  thorough  knowledge 

Of  all  the  little  things  which  women  love  ; 

One  who  can  talk  of  China,  or  of  cats — 

Of  furs,  or  frills — of  lace,  or  Cashmere  shawls — 


90  CALAYNOS. 

And  be  as  learned  and  absolute  in  these, 

As  is  your  lord  in  metaphysic's  lore : 

That  were  a  proper  man — a  man  of  fashion — 

A  man  of  feeling,  delicate,  refined  ; 

Not  a  great  clumsy,  learned  elephant ! 

DONA  ALDA. 

Hark  !  they  are  coming. — Get  you  in,  Martina. 

MARTINA. 

I'll  pass  this  way  ;  for  I  must  see  the  guest.    [Exit. 

CALAYNOS.    (Without.} 

Is  Dona  Alda  here  1 

MARTINA.    (Without.} 

She  is,  my  lord. 
(Enter  CALAYNOS,  DON  Luis,  OLIVER,  and  SOTO.) 

DONA  ALDA.  (Embracing  CALAYNOS.) 
Welcome,  my  lord. 

CALAYNOS. 

Dear  Alda,  in  thy  joy, 
Thou  hast  forgot  the  guest  I  bring  to  thee; 


A  TRAGEDY.  91 

A  guest,  and  therefore  to  be  welcomed  first — 
A  friend,  and  therefore  to  be  welcomed  warmly. 

DONA  ALDA.    (To  DON  LuiS.) 

Pardon  me,  senior,  if  I  once  offend 

The  courtesy  a  lady  owes  her  guest. 

'Tis  the  first  parting  we  have  e'er  endured  ; 

Therefore  our  meeting  is  a  strange  delight, 

New  and  most  grateful.     You  are  welcome,  sir, 

Both  as  a  guest,  and  as  my  husband's  friend. 

DON  LUIS. 

Ask  me  no  pardon,  where  is  no  offence. — 
Your  double  welcome  I  accept  at  heart, 
And  pray  't  may  have  a  long  continuance. 
How  beautiful  she  is ! — Heavens,  what  a  gem 
This  barbarous  castle  has  shut  up  in  it !         [Aside. 
Why  came  you  not,  fair  lady,  to  Seville  1 — 
The  Court  was  there,  and  all  was  gayety, 
Which  lacked  but  you  to  make  the  joy  complete. 

DONA  ALDA. 

The  very  man  whom  last  Martina  drew.     [Aside. 
'Twas  not  his  will.  (Pointing  to  CALAYNOS.) 


92  CALAYNOS. 

DON  LUIS. 

Ah,  then  you  wished  to  come  ? 

DONA  ALDA. 

My  lord's  will  is  my  wish. 

DON  LUIS. 

Most  dutiful ! 

Would  that  all  ladies  could  be  taught  by  you — 
'Twould  save  us  aches  ! 

DONA  ALDA.     (To  CALAYNOS.) 

My  lord,  we'll  share  thy  thoughts. 

CALAYNOS. 

Nay,  note  me  not.     I  must  retire  awhile.        [Exit. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Perhaps  'twould  please  you,  sir,  to  view  the  castle  ? 

No  customary  qualities  it  lacks, 

Which  dignify  all  huge  and  antique  piles. 

On  every  oaken  door  and  painted  window 

There  rests  a  legend,  magnified  by  time ; 

Each  tower  is  tenanted,  at  evil  hours, 


A   TRAGEDY.  93 

By  other  forms  than  walk  its  floors  by  day ; 
No  stone  but  has  its  story.     Some  are  gay, 
Some  grotesque,  some  are  sad,  some  horrible. 
I'll  tell  you  but  the  cheerful — shall  we  walk  1 

DON  LUIS. 

Ay,  like  the  Sultan  of  the  Eastern  tale, 

I'll  list  a  thousand  nights  with  eager  ears.   [Exeunt. 

(OLIVER  and  SOTO  advance.') 

SOTO. 
This  is  a  fine  old  castle — somewhat  musty. 

OLIVER. 

Ay,  'tis  the  mustiest  mansion  in  all  Spain. 
This  castle  my  lord's  race  inhabited 
Beyond  all  date. 

SOTO. 
How  did  they  in  the  flood  ? 

OLIVER. 

O,  they  were  fishes  then,  and  swam  unchoked. 
They  were  advancing  from  their  primal  slime — 
9 


94  CAf.AYNOS. 

Hatched  by  the  sun  on  some  wide  river's  bank — 
Through  worms,  fish,  frogs,  and  beasts,  upward  to 

men. 

They  lived  here  monkeys,  till  their  tails  wore  off', 
Then  became  Moors,  and  last  you  find  them  thus. 
I'll  scare  these  villains  from  their  base  designs ; 
They'll  fear  my  presence,  though  they  blind  my 

lord.  [Aside. 

soxo. 

Why  here's  a  pedigree  for  potentates  ! 
That's  why  they  quarter  beasts  upon  their  shields ; 
Relations  they  to  all  these  rampant  brutes. 
Friend,  I  shall  dread  to  kill  the  next  mad  dog, 
For  fear  I  spill  some  near  relation's  blood. 

OLIVER. 

Fear  you  to  kill  a  fox !     You  were  a  fox — 
A  cunning,  sly,  most  guilty-minded  fox  ; 
Your  master  was  a  wolf,  a  dangerous  wolf, 
And  you,  sly  fox,  were  his  first  counsellor. — 
Fear  to  slay  foxes,  Soto  ! 


A  TRAGEDY.  95 

SOTO. 

What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

OLIVER. 

Merely  that  men  were  one  time  animals. 

My  master  was  a  lion,  king  of  beasts ; 

And  you  two,  fox  and  wolf,  once  stole  his  crown, 

And  thought  to  wear  it. 

SOTO. 

Friend,  you  speak  in  riddles. 

OLIVER. 

0  no,  in  fables  I. 

SOTO. 
Speak  plainer,  ^Esop  ! 

OLIVER. 

1  was  a  dog,  a  faithful,  patient  cur, 

And   watched   my   master    while   his   eyes   were 

closed  ; — 

For  you  had  given  the  king  a  sleeping  draught, 
Made  of  a  flower  called  friendship — falsely  called ! 


96  CALAYNOS. 

I  slew  the  fox  and  wolf,  regained  the  crown, 
And  placed  the  golden  circle  on  his  brow  :  — 
Now,  in  the  fable,  see  what  beast  was  I  !  [Exit. 

SOTO. 

This  fellow  looks  through  both  of  us  like  glass  : 
He's  keener  than  my  lord,  and  wiser  far. 
Some  sunny  day,  we'll  both  pitch  o'er  these  walls, 
And  he  will  be  the  man  that  breaks  our  necks. 
Ah  !  'tis  a  sad  thing,  Soto,  very  sad, 
To  be  knave's  knave,  e'en  though  he  be  a  Don  ! 
To  take  the  peril,  and  do  all  the  work, 
Then,  at  the  last,  come  in  for  all  the  kicks. 
My  lord  must  know  the  fable  which  I  heard — 
He'll  sleep  the  lighter  for  it,  on  my  life !          [Exit. 


A  TRAGEDY.  97 


SCENE  II. 
Another  room  in  the  castle.     Enter  DONA  ALDA  and  DON  Luis. 

DON  LUIS. 

Pray,  noble  lady,  how  do  you  kill  time  1 
The  constant  sameness  of  a  country  life 
Must,  sometimes,  bear  with  weight  on  your  high 
spirit. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Kill  time,  kill  time!     Ne'er  breathe  those  words 

again — 

At  least  not  where  my  lord  Calaynos  hears, 
If  on  his  good  opinion  you  set  store. 
He  uses  time,  as  usurers  do  their  gold, 
Making  each  moment  pay  him  double  interest ; 
He  sighs  o'er  what  in  slumber  is  consumed  ; 
Robs  the  lead-lidded  god  of  many  an  hour, 
To  swell  his  heaping  stores  of  curious  learning. 
9* 


98  CALAYNOS. 

DON  LUIS. 

I  hope  my  words  no  treason  to  your  ears ; 

I  thought  not,  gentle  lady,  to  offend. 

But  I  have  lived  in  cities,  from  my  birth, 

Where  all  was  noise,  and  life,  and  varying  scene — 

Recurrent  news  which  set  all  men  agape — 

New  faces,  and  new  friends,  and  shows,  and  revels. 

Mingled  in  constant  action  and  quick  change, 

Which  things  drive  on  the  wheels  of  time  apace  ; 

Nor,  but  for  scanty  periods,  have  I  known 

The  changeless  round  of  a  calm  country  life. 

I  have  not  weighed  my  minutes  in  fine  scales, 

As  lapidaries  do  the  diamond's  dust; 

Content  am  I  to  wear  life's  blazing  gem, 

Nor  care  what  fragments  fall  in  polishing. 

DONA  ALDA. 

I  have  not  passed  my  life  in  gayeties ; 
Duties,  not  pleasures,  have  filled  up  my  days. 
My  lord's  domain  is  large,  and  peopled  thick  ; 
Though  most  are  prosperous,  some  are  old,  some 
poor: 


A  TRAGEDY.  99 

Those  that  can  hither  come,  I  here  relieve ; 
But  the  more  feeble  I  ride  forth  to  seek, 
Freighted  with   goods    which   ease  their   present 

wants. 

Sometimes,  I  read  old  books  of  chivalry, 
And  fill  my  wandering  brain  with  idle  fears 
Of  dwarfs,  enchanters,  giants,  eldridge  knights, 
That  throng  the  crowded  world  of  old  romance. 
Sometimes,  I  prattle  with  my  town-bred  maid, 
A  girl  of  wit,  who  longs  to  see  Seville, 
And  has  so  filled  my  ears  with  her  desire, 
That  I'd  fain  go,  if  but  to  still  her  tongue. 
Then  there  are  household  duties  infinite, 
Krtown  but  to  women,  which  I  must  discharge. 

DON  LUIS. 

So  then,  at  times  you  are  an  almoner, 
At  times  a  romance-reader,  next  a  housewife. 
These  are  grave  things  to  spend  a  life  upon ! 
But  where's  Calaynos  in  this  catalogue? — 
Does  he  not  cheer  you,  in  your  mournful  tasks  ? 


JOO  CALAYNOS. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Are  you  his  friend,  and  ask  me  this  of  him  ? 
He  is  a  scholar  of  the  strictest  caste ; 
And  from  the  portal  of  yon  study  dim, 
Seldom  comes  forth,  and  then  but  for  a  moment. 
He  is  a  man  of  grave  and  earnest  mind, 
Wrapped  up  in  things  beyond  my  range  of  thought; 
Of  a  warm  heart,  yet  with  a  sense  of  duty — 
As  how  he  must  employ  his  powerful  mind — 
That  drives  all  empty  trifles  from  his  brain, 
And  bends  him  sternly  o'er  his  solemn  tasks. 
Things  nigh  impossible  are  plain  to  him : 
His  trenchant  will,  like  a  fine-tempered  blade, 
With  unturned  edge,  cleaves   through   the   baser 

iron. — 
Such  is  my  lord,  a  man  above  mankind. 

DON  LUIS. 

And  can  you  feel  companionship  with  him, 

An  intellectual  demi-god,  removed 

From  all  the  sympathies  that  mark  our  race  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  101 

Can  your  warm  woman's  heart  outpour  its  griefs, 
Or  share  its  gladness,  with  a  soul  like  his? 
Can  you  unbidden  leap  upon  his  breast, 
And  laugh  or  weep,  as  suits  your  forward  mood  ? 
He  must  despise  all  smiles,  and  mock  all  tears : 
Serene,  and  cold,  and  calm — an  ice-crowned  peak, 
Towering  supreme  amid  thought's  frozen  clouds, 
Above  the  thaws  that  flood  our  vales  of  life. 

DONA  ALDA. 

You're  talking  of  my  husband. 

DON  LUIS. 

Of  my  friend. 

Let  me  be  your  friend,  lady,  I  beseech. 
I  fain  would  see  you  live  in  happiness ; 
And  his  strange  coldness  cannot  bring  you  peace. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Husband  and  wife  need  not  a  go-between. 
I  did  not  say  I  lived  unhappily ; 
Nor  that  Calaynos  wanted  in  his  love. 
Senior,  you  take  wild  license  with  my  speech, 


102  CALAYNOS. 

To  twist  its  meaning  to  so  base  an  end. 
I  love  him,  he  loves  rne. 

DON   LUIS. 

Your  pardon,  madam. 
'Twas  but  the  share  I  take  in  all  affairs, 
Wherein  my  friends  are  mixed.     I  meant  not  ill ; 
Nor,  willingly,  your  harmless  words  would  wrest 
To  any  sinister  or  false  intent. 
'Twas  a  mistake ;  but  such  a  one  might  hap 
In  the  warm  heart  of  any  loving  friend. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Well-meaning  ill  the  generous  must  forgive. 
When  next  we  meet,  beware  how  you  uprake 
The  slumbering  ashes  in  the  fane  of  love  ; 

Lest  you  come  off  with  withered  hands! — farewell. 

[Exit. 

DON  LUIS. 

Farewell,  thou  type  of  beauty,  whom  I'll  win — 
Farewell,  thou  guileless  seat  of  embryo  love — 
Farewell,  thou  temple  of  my  burning  heart — 


A  TRAGEDY.  103 

Thou  thief  of  honour — thou  enchantress  fair  ! 
Who  hast  upset  my  nature  by  thine  art, 
And  killed  the  latest  seeds  of  good  in  me. 
Farewell,  all  gratitude,  and  friendship's  trust ! 
Come,  smiling  sin,  and  pour  thy  honied  words 
On  tongue  and  lips,  but  in  my  heart  pour  gall ! — 
Come  thin-robed  sin,  that  show's!  thy  loveliness, 
But  hid'st  thy  wickedness  and  keen  remorse ! 
That  I  may  win  my  love,  and  hate  her  lord — 
O,  when  had  love  a  conscience  or  a  fear !      [Exit. 


SCENE  III. 

The  study  O/"CALAYNOS.     CALAYNOS  reading,  OLIVER 
transcribing  a  manuscript. 

OLIVER.   (Rising) 

My  lord,  this  learned  manuscript  has  raised 
A  crowd  of  strange  conjectures  in  my  mind, 
That  rush  and  jostle  through  my  wildered  brain, 
In  wild  confusion,  without  settled  purpose. 


104  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS.   (Rising.') 
What  part  stirred  up  this  riot  in  your  head? 

OLIVER. 

That  part  in  which  it  hints  at  God's  design 
In  the  creation  of  the  earth  and  man. 
(  I  oft  have  wondered  how  omniscient  God 
Could  take  delight  in  forming  things  like  men : 
So  full  of  meanness,  yet  so  full  of  pride — 
So  strong  in  thought,  and  yet  so  weak  in  act — 
So  foul  in  nature,  so  o'ergrown  with  sin, 
Yet  destined  for  a  sphere  'neath  Him  alone. 
What  pleasure  finds  He  in  our  paltry  deeds, 
Begot  of  selfishness  and  headstrong  will  ? 
What  feeling  moves  Him,  when  the  puny  thing 
Lifts  up  its  voice,  and  boldly  rails  at  Him  ? 
How  deems  He,  when  He  sees  the  myriad  souls 
That  speed  to  death — their  destiny  forgot, 
The  purpose  of  their  being  unachieved — 
Seeking,  unawed,  a  hell  of  their  own  choosing  ? 
Why  did  He  form  so  fair  a  stage  as  this, 


A  'TRAGEDY.  1 05 


To  dance  His  trifling  puppet,  man,  upon  ? 
And  last,  does  not  this  whole  creation  seem 
'Neath  His  contempt,  so  far  above  it  He  1  J 


CALAYNOS. 


Stop,  Oliver ;  you  tread  on  dangerous  ground, 
A  mental  bog,  that  quakes  beneath  your  feet. 
These  words  would  seem  to  come  from  humbleness, 
And  low  opinion  of  yourself  and  man  ; 
Yet  are  engendered  by  the  rankest  pride, 
Arrayed  in  robes  of  meek  humility — 
Stop !  the  next  step  is  infidelity. 
/[Contempt  for  man  begets  contempt  for  God : 
He  who  hates  man,  must  scorn  the  Source  of  man, 
And  challenge,  as  unwise,  his  awful  Maker. 
The  next  step  doubt ;  and  then  comes  unbelief. 
Last,  you  raise  man  above  all  else  besides, 
And  make  him  chiefest  in  the  universe. 
So,  from  a  self-contempt,  grows  impious  pride, 
Which  swells  your  first-thought  pigmy  to  a  giant, 
And  gives  the  puffed  up  atom  fancied  sway. 
10 


106  CALAYNOS. 

God  is  !     Philosophy  here  ends  her  flight ; 
This  is  the  height  and  term  of  human  reason: 
A  fact  that,  like  the  whirling  Norway  pool, 
Draws  to  its  centre  all  things,  swallows  all. 
How  can  you  know  God's  nature  to  Himself? 
How  learn  His  purpose  in  creating  man  1 
What's  ultimate  to  man,  remains  concealed. — 
Enough  for  you,  to  know  that  here  you  are — 
A  thought  of  God,  made  manifest  on  earth. 
Ah,  yet  His  voice  is  heard  within  the  heart ; 
Faint,  but  oracular,  it  whispers  there : 
Follow  that  voice,  love  all,  and  trust  to  Him.y 
O,  learn,  dear  Oliver,  to  pity  one, 
Who  wanders  in  this  world  without  a  faith 
In  something  greater  than  his  feeble  self! 


I'll  shun  this  ground.     I  saw  not  that  I  stood 
O'er  an  abyss,  like  a  weak,  erring  child, 
And  prattled  wildly  on  destruction's  brink. — 
Yet  thoughts,  like  these,  will  rise  in  spite  of  me. 


- 


A  TRAGEDY.  107 

CALAYNOS. 

I  know  it ;  'tis  the  taint  of  primal  sin, 
That  mingles  with  each  thought,  mars  every  act, 
That  stains  our  very  good  with  something  ill ; 
And,  like  the  poison  which  abounds  in  plants, 
Mingles  its  portion  with  our  healthiest  food. 

OLIVER. 

Does  not  this  knowledge  of  man's  sinfulness 
Awake  a  doubt  of  individuals, 
And  make  you  cautious,  when  you  deal  with  men? 

CALAYNOS. 

No  ;  I  have  pre-determined  trust  in  man, 
That  never  alters,  till  I  find  him  false. 
I  am  above  the  common  herd  in  power; 
No  rogue  can  wrong,  but  in  my  ample  purse ; 
Which    I   scarce  feel,  which,  had   he   asked,  I'd 
given. 

OLIVER. 

'Tis  all  in  vain !  I  cannot  raise  a  doubt 
In  his  ingenuous  nature. — There's  no  hope. 


108  CALAYNOS. 

I  have  but  slender  grounds  to  doubt  Don  Luis ; 
And  my  own  doubts,  perchance,  may  work  me  ill — 
Yet  will  I  go  to  death,  if  he's  not  false ! 
I,  from  Seville,  will  gain  the  facts  I  want ; 
Meantime — (Aside.}     My  lord,  much  of  your  friend 

you'll  see ; 

For  you  must  hunt,  and  feast,  to  pass  his  time, 
And  show  all  courtesies  that  may  befit. 

CALAYNOS. 

Nay ;  he's  too  dear  a  friend  to  make  a  stranger. 
I  will  divide  my  castle  and  my  wealth  ; 
Let  him  use  each,  as  suits  his  present  mood. 
We  will  not  clash  in  interests :  he  may  hunt, 
I  study  ;  thus,  each  may  enjoy  his  bent. 
Then  Dona  Alda  will  be  much  with  him. 

OLIVER. 
Hum,  hum,  I  like  not  that.  \_Aside. 

CALAYNOS. 

She  is  so  full  of  life,  so  fond  of  change  ; 

They  two  can  put  their  restless  heads  together, 


A  TRAGEDY.  109 

Unhood  their  thoughts  at  every  whim  that  flies, 
And  chase  the  quarry  till  they  bring  it  down. 

OLIVER. 

Heaven   grant,   these   coupled   falcons   prove   not 
haggards !  [ Aside. 

(CALAYNOS  reads,  OLIVER  writes.     Scene  closes.") 


SCENE  IV. 
A  room  in  the  castle.     Enter  MARTINA. 

MARTINA. 

I  wonder  where  the  strangers  can  have  gone? 
I've  searched  the  castle  o'er,  to  find  them  out; 
Yet  save  the  glimpse  I  caught  as  they  came  in. 
Have  tried,  in  vain,  to  get  a  peep  at  them. 
The  master  has  a  gay  and  courtly  air, 
Which  proves  him  of  high  birth,  and  liberal  training. 
The  man,  too,  bears  himself  in  proper  trim, 
And  shines,  although  reflected  is  his  light. 
'Tis  nigh  as  well  to  serve  a  gentleman, 
10* 


110  CALAYNOS. 

As  to  be  gentle  born — to  catch  his  ways, 
Follow  his  manners,  and  imbibe  his  tastes ; 
Learn  what  is  graceful,  what  to  be  eschewed ; 
Garner  the  grain,  and  fling  aside  the  chafF: 
Till,  in  the  end,  the  copy  may  become 
A  finer  work  than  the  original. 
I've  hajf  a  mind  to  fall  headlong  in  love ; 
Certes  I  will,  if  he  show  sign  of  fire. 
(Enter  SOTO.) 

SOTO. 
Good  day,  fair  maid  !     We  have  not  met  before. 

MARTINA. 

Good  day,  fair  sir! — fhe  better  since  we  meet. 
I'll  show  him  I  can  speak  as  fair  as  he.          [Aside. 

SOTO. 

Are  you  a  dweller  'neath  this  roof  above, 
Or  but  a  passing  angel  here  alit  ? 

MARTINA. 

Ay,  and  a  treader  of  this  floor  beneath  ! 


A  TRAGEDY.  I  1 1 

Throw  off  your  lofty  style. — Pm  not  a  fool, 
Nor  a  plain  country  maiden,  as  you  think. 

SOTO. 

Plain  you  are  not ;  that  can  I  truly  say — 
I  hope  a  maiden. 

MARTINA. 

As?  you  are  a  knave  ! 

What  if  Pm  not  a  maid  ?— What  if  a  wife  ? 
Pm  still  my  lady's  maid,  say  what  you  will. 
What  if  a  widow  ?  Would  you  like  me  less  ? 

SOTO. 
Shall  I  speak  plainly  1 

MARTINA. 

Plainly  as  you  think. 

SOTO. 

Then,  if  a  maid,  I  hold  you  'bove  all  price. 
If  you're  a  wife,  keep  your  dear  husband  hence ; 
Pd  spit  the  villain,  as  I  would  a  toad! 
If  you're  a  widow,  then,  I  think  of  you 
As  of  a  nut,  when  all  the  kernel's  gone — 


112  CALAYNOS. 

As  of  a  fruit,  when  all  the  juice  is  dried — 

As  of  a  feast,  when  all  the  meats  are  eat — 

As  fair  outside,  but  rifled  all  within  ! 

An  unclaimed  hawk  may  come  to  know  the  lure, 

And  we  may  teach  the  haggard  as  we  list ; 

But  when  once  broken,  by  an  unskilled  hand, 

She  gains  such  tricks  as  training  cannot  mend. 

MARTINA. 

Why  the  dog's  mad  in  love !  (Aside.)  I  am  a  maid. 

SOTO. 

Let  me  catch   breath,  and  thank   you  for   those 

words ! 

My  blood  runs  free,  that  nigh  became  a  mass, 
Congealed  and  stagnant,  by  my  freezing  doubts  ! 

MARTINA. 

Come  from  your  stilts — I  fain  would  like  you,  sir; 
But  you  must  be  familiar,  not  too  lofty : — 
You  fly  your  words  above  my  simple  ken. 
If  you'll  make  love,  why,  make  it  like  a  man, 
Not  like  a  demi-god — we  have  enough 


A  TRAGEDY.  113 

Of  word-inflated  mortals  in  our  house. — 
How  do  you  like  this  place  ? 

SOTO. 

O,  past  all  bounds — 
That  is  for  you ;  for  one  thing  else  I  hate  it. 

MARTINA. 

What  thing  is  that? 

SOTO. 

Be  secret — Oliver. 

MARTINA. 

You  hate  him  1     I  do  too,  most  bitterly. 
The  scurvy  fool,  who  fain  would  be  a  sage  ! 

SOTO. 

The  prying  knave,  who  has  discovered  more 
Than  his  dull  lord,  with  all  his  learning,  could  ! 
Things  are  at  pretty  pass,  when  servants  grow 
Above  their  masters — saving  you  and  me. 

MARTINA. 

Pray  tell  me  all. 


114  CALAYNOS. 

SOTO. 

Well,  let  us  walk  apart : 

Some  ear,  less  honest,  our  discourse  might  catch. 
I'll  tell  you  all,  for  we  both  pull  one  way.    [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V. 
The  park  before  the  castle.     Enter  DON  Luis. 

DON    LUIS. 

The  means,  the  means  ! — My  love  is  cold  as  snow; 

I  dare  not  tell  her  what  I  burst  to  say. 

But  she  may  change ;  as  Hecla  sends  forth  fire 

From  out  the  ice,  which  hides  its  burning  heart. 

But  how  1   Alas,  she  knows  not  of  my  love ; 

Can  take  no  interest  in  me,  uninformed. 

Did  she  but  know,  that  might  arouse  her  heart ; 

For  half  the  love  of  earth  from  this  source  springs  ; 

First  woman's  flattered  at  the  heat  she  wakes, 

Then  falls  in  love,  to  rid  herself  of  debt. 

I  dare  not  tell  her ;  that  might  blast  the  whole, 


A  TRAGEDY.  115 

And  drive  me  from  her  presence  unrepaid. 
Yet  she  must  know  ;  but  by  some  other  means — 
Not  know  but  doubt  it.    Let  that  thought  once  in, 
No  band  of  angels  e'er  can  drive  it  out, 
No  force  usurp  its  sway.     I'm  well  convinced 
She  bears  no  love  for  her  great  booby  lord  : 
If  she  is  secret, -he  can  ne'er  suspect — 
Too  busy  up  in  heaven  to  think  of  earth. 
There's  Oliver ; — I'll  give  him  food  for  doubts, 
Which  if  he  breathe,  I,  through  the  influence 
Wielded  by  me  above  his  heaven-rapt  lord, 
Will  drive  the  beggar  forth. — O,  friendship  dear, 
Through  thee  I'll  work,  and  gain  my  end  at  last. 

Enter  SOTO. 

SOTO. 

I  have  been  looking  for  you  far  and  near. 
I've  all  the  castle's  secrets  on  my  thumb. 

DON  LUIS.   * 
What  know  you,  Soto? 


J  16  CALAYNOS. 

SOTO. 

Nay,  what  know  I  not  ? 
I  know,  my  lord,  all  that  one  girl  could  say 
In  scarce  an  hour ;  but  what  would  pose  ten  men, 
And  they  fast  talkers,  in  a  day  to  tell. 

DON  LUIS. 
Who  gossiped  thus? 

SOTO. 
Martina. 

DON  LUIS. 

Who  is  she  ? 

SOTO. 

The  confidential  maiden  of  my  lady ; 
A  girl  of  wit,  and  most  complete  in  form, 
With  thoughts  and  aims  above  the  place  she  holds. 
She,  too,  abhors  the  crafty  secretary ; 
And  when  I  told  her  how  I  scorned  the  wretch, 
She  loosed  her  eager  tongue,  told  everything 
Which  she  had  gathered  since  she  first  came  here. 
At  last  we  fell  in  love,  and  there  we  rest. 


A  TRAGEDY.  1  17 

DON  LUIS. 

Go  on,  good  Soto,  cram  her  to  the  brim, 
Love  her  as  you  have  never  loved  before  ? 
Or  rather  make  her  love  you,  that  were  best. 
I  too  have  fallen  in  love. 

SOTO. 
With  whom,  my  lord  ? 

DON  LUIS. 
With  Dona  Alda. 

SOTO. 
Are  you  much  in  love  ? 

DON  LUIS. 
In  love  to  death  ! 

SOTO. 

O,  that  is  nothing  strange. 
You've  sickened  for  a  score,  died  for  a  score ; 
Till  the  next  passion  brought  you  health  and  life. 
There  was  Constanza,  Clara,  Viola, 
Maria,  Isabella,  Phillipa — 
11 


118  CALAYNOS. 

DON  LUIS. 

Peace!  you  are  crying  this  she  merchandise 
As  tradesmen  do  their  wares.     I  tell  you,  knave, 
The  love  which  now  I  feel,  like  hunger  gnaws  me ! 

SOTO. 

They  feed  too  well  to  give  that  figure  force 
In  this  fat  castle.     But  a  week  ago, 
When  I  was  thin  and  famished  in  Seville, 
Such  words  had  drawn  forth  tears  of  sympathy. 
But  there's  the  husband  loves  you  'bove  all  heights. 

DON  LUIS. 
And  here  am  I,  that  hate  him  'neath  all  depths. 

SOTO. 

Natural  enough ;  you  bear  it  in  your  blood. 
I  lately  heard  a  ballad,  ages  old  — 
A  scurvy  ballad, — a  foul,  lying  ballad — 
Which  told  how  some  great  ancestor  of  his 
Drove  round  Granada's  laughter-shaken  walls, 
Kinsman  of  yours.     Not  with  a  manly  sword — 
No,  that  were  fair — with  a  base  scourge  he  did  it. 


A  TRAGEDY.  119 

DON  LUIS. 

What  mean  you? 

SOTO. 

He's  of  Moorish  blood. 

DON  LUIS. 

You  fool 

SOTO. 

Witness  his  Moorish  name,  Calaynos. 

DON  LUIS. 

True. 
Who  told  you  this? 

SOTO. 

Martina  told  me,  sir. 
'Tis  a  mere  taint  he  bears  paternally : 
Though  very  slight,  yet,  in  the  pious  eyes 
Of  the  hidalgos  of  Castilian  breed, 
Worse  than  all  crimes  the  devil  ever  did. — 
'Tis  a  grave  secret,  not  to  be  divulged. 


120  CALAYNOS. 

DON  LUIS. 

Ah,  now  I  think,  I  heard  it  when  a  boy. 
What  of  his  lady — is  she  Moorish  too? 

SOTO. 
No,  of  the  purest  blood. 

DON  LUIS. 
Why,  this  is  strange  ! 

SOTO. 

Her  sire  was  proud,  but  sunk  in  poverty ; 
The  lord  was  rich,  but  of  the  unclean  blood ; 
And  so  they  compromised,  and  struck  a  trade. 

DON  LUIS. 

Then  the  Moor  bought  her  1 

SOTO. 

So  Martina  says. 

That's  why  he  would  not  take  her  to  Seville, 
For  fear  she'd  learn  what  half  of  Spain  well  knows. 

DON  LUIS. 

You're  sure  she  knows  it  not  ? 


A  TRAGEDY. 
SOTO. 

Who'd  dare  to  tell  ] 

He'd  pitch  the  bold  informer  in  the  moat 
To  drink  his  health:  he's  more  than  sovereign  here. 

DON  LUIS. 

Now,  lovely  Alda,  I  have  hold  on  thee, 
Shall  draw  thee  to  me,  should  all  else  fall  short.  [  Aside. 
Go,  Soto,  tell  this  new-made  love  of  yours 
That  I'm  neck-deep  in  love  for  her  fair  lady. — 
You  need  not  tell  her  to  be  secret. — Go ! 

SOTO. 

Here's  mischief  brewing.    [Aside.']    I  obey  you,  sir. 

[Exit. 

DON  LUIS. 

Thanks,  love !  This  news  outgoes  my  wildest  hope. 
I  doubt  no  more,  the  thing  is  certainty ; 
The  chase  is  simple,  and  the  conquest  sure ; — 
The  means,  which  cannot  fail,  are  in  my  hands. 
Sure  'tis  a  virtuous  deed  to  set  her  right ; 
11* 


122  CALAYNOS. 

To  show  this  cozening  Moor  in  all  his  guilt, 

In  all  the  blackness  of  his  foul  deceit, 

To   her   dear   eyes. — Good   Lord !    a    boy  might 

Wo,  wo,  Calaynos !  this  sole  crime  of  thine 
Shall  draw  upon  thy  head  a  double  grief!       [Exit. 


SCENE  VI. 
A  room  in  the  castle.     Enter  MARTINA  and  SOTO. 

SOTO. 

There  bloom  twin  rose-buds  'tween  your  nose  and 

chin, 
That  I'd  fain  taste. 

MARTINA. 

Kind  sir,  beware  the  thorns  ! 

[Showing  her  nails. 

SOTO. 

I've  felt  the  thorns,  they  rankle  in  my  heart; 

Nought  but  thy  lips  can  draw  their  venom  out. 

[Kisses  her. 


A   TRAGEDY.  123 

MARTINA. 

Your  act  has  bruised  the  heel  of  your  desire, 
So  close  it  treads  behind. — Dost  love  me,  sir? 

SOTO. 

Love  thee  !  I  love  thee  past  the  flight  of  thought. 
Words  cannot  tell  thee — nay,  I  cannot  think, 
I  cannot  truly  to  myself  conceive — 
Cannot  set  bounds  to,  cannot  understand 
The  one  idea  which  o'er  me  reigns  supreme, 
And  bows  me  at  thy  feet — (Kneels.")     I  can  but  feel 

The  might  of  that  strong  spirit. — Useless  words  ! 

[Rises. 

I  see  thou  hat'st  me,  see  thou  think'st  me  fool — 
Know  thou  wilt  scorn  me — send  me  from  thee  far, 
To  spend  my  days  in  mortified  despair. 
O,  what  a  dolt  was  I,  to  tell  thee  this  ! 
But  my  full  heart  drove  on  my  silly  tongue. 
Farewell,  for  ever  ! 

MARTINA. 

Stay ;  I  hate  thee  not. 


124  CALAYNOS. 

SOTO. 

But  dost  thou  love  me?     Say  that  word,  or  I — 

MARTINA. 

I  love  thee. 

SOTO. 
Wilt  thou  ever  love  me  thus  ? 

MARTINA. 

Till  soul  and  body  fall  apart,  I  will. 

SOTO. 

O  joy,  O  love  !  Success  beyond  my  hopes  ! 
I,  like  a  reckless  gamester,  staked  my  all 
On  this  last  throw,  and  see,  the  game  is  won ! 

MARTINA. 

Play  not  again ;  or  you  may  lose  your  winnings. 

SOTO. 

Fear  not,  dear  maid,  I'm  rich  in  what  I've  won. 
But  dost  thou  know,  Martina,  that  we  two 
Are  not  the  only  lovers  here  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  125 

MARTINA. 

How  so  ? 

&OTO. 

My  lord  thy  lady  loves,  as  I  love  thee, 

And  she  must  love  my  master,  as  thou  lov'st ; 

Or  we  this  dismal  house  can  never  fly; 

Here  he'll  abide  till  doomsday. — Dost  thou  see  ? 

We  must  contrive  to  win  her  to  his  love  ; 

For  if  she  flies,  then  fly  we  in  her  train. 

MARTINA. 

She  loves  him  not ;  yet  may  be  made  to  love. — 
I'll  do  my  utmost ;  for  thy  sake,  not  his. 

SOTO. 
Where  dost  thou  lodge  ? 

MARTINA. 

Just  next  my  lady's  room, 

And  Hymen  keeps  the  key. — Fair  sir,  good  night ! 

[Exit. 


126  CALAYNOS. 

SOTO. 

She's  a  brave  wench;  but  somewhat  over  prudent. — 
Well,  if  I  wed  her,  I'll  not  mate  a  fool. 
Now  to  Don  Luis ;  let  him  watch  his  game, 
If  he  will  play  at  hazard  with  the  Moor — 

There'll  be  swords  drawn  before  this  cast  is  o'er. 

[Exit. 


A  TRAGEDY.  127 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  great  hall  in  the  castle.     Enter  DON  Luis 
and  SOTO. 

DON  LOIS. 

Yet  I  much  doubt  the  power  Martina  holds. 

In  small  affairs  her  influence  may  be  great ; 

But  in  a  matter  like  the  one  now  toward, 

I  fear  she  must  come  off  with  sorry  grace. 

I  value  virtue,  though  I  have  it  not, 

And  know  its  power  to  set  all  wiles  at  nought : 

Heart-rooted  good  may  pass  through  fire  unscathed, 

And  chastity  can  keep  a  fiend  at  bay, 

With  its  pure  sinless  front. 

SOTO. 

Bravo,  my  lord ! 
Here's  a  fine  speech,  to  come  from  one  like  you ! 

DON  LUIS. 
Soto,  I've  trod  all  paths  of  sin  and  guilt, 


128  CALAYNOS. 

And  know  the  wickedness  and  crimes  of  men  ; 
Yet  would  a  fool  have  been,  had  I  not  seen 
That  virtue  may  exist,  though  rare  indeed. 
I  tell  you,  I  have  met  it  everywhere, 
In  halls  and  hovels ;  and  have  oft  retired, 
Abashed  and  conquered,  from  its  injured  look. 

SOTO. 

My  lord,  if  thus  you  reason  'gainst  yourself, 
As  if  persuading  from  your  first  design, 
Give  up  the  chase — I'll  never  counsel  guilt. 

DON   LUIS. 

No,  by  the  gods !  you  misconceive  my  aim. 
Fools  come  to  nought,  who  follow  cheating  hope ; 
I  ever  look  at  the  dark  side  of  things, 
And  weigh  the  chances  'gainst  my  own  success : 
So  bring  to  enterprise  a  wary  eye, 
Prepared  for  every  stop  that  balks  my  way. 
Nought  but  long-suffering  good,  that  triumphs  most 
When  most  oppressed  by  adverse  circumstance, 
Can  'scape  the  snares  that  threat  fair  Alda's  feet. 


A  TRAGEDY.  129 

SOTO. 

Martina  calls  her  weak,  of,fickle  mind, 
Curious  for  change,  and  discontented  here ; 
Unstable  in  design,  thence,  easily  led. 

DON  LUIS. 
She  may  be  thus,  and  yet  be  pure  as  heaven. 

SOTO. 

Monstrous,  my  lord  !  Do  you  not  blush  with  shame, 
To  look  on  virtue,  and  dissect  it  thus  ? 
If  I  e'er  thought  of  good  I'd  turn  a  monk. 

DON  LUIS. 

You  say  Martina  knows  no  ill  of  her, 
No  sin,  the  slightest — not  a  hook  or  loop, 
Whereby  to  lead  her  on  ?     Mayhap,  her  lord 
Has  told  his  Moorish  birth,  in  some  soft  mood — 
Has  reconciled  the  stain,  and  won  regard. 
If  he  has  not,  love  shall  succeed  through  guilt. 

SOTO. 

Martina  gives  but  one  reply  to  that; 
12 


130  CALAYNOS. 

She  says  her  lady  never  had  a  hint 

Of  how  Calaynos  wronged  her  ; — rest  on  this. 

DON  LUIS. 

'Tis  well,  'tis  well ;  the  sharper  then  the  stroke, 
The  keener  then  the  pang,  the  more  she  loves. — 
Nay,  nay,  she  loves  him  not — to  that  I'll  swear ; 
But  this  will  tear  respect  and  awe  away. 
Martina  must  contrive  we  meet  to-night; 
And  you  stand  ready  at  the  horses'  heads. 
If  you  would  take  your  baggage,  have  her  prompt, 
And  pack  her  safe  upon  another  horse ; 
While  you  ride  guard,  to  hinder  all  pursuit — 
My  steed  bears  double. — See,  the  lady  comes. 

(Enter  DoSfA  ALDA  and  MARTINA.     Soxo  and  MARTINA  talk 
apart.') 

Lady,  I  waited  to  address  you  here. 
I  on  the  morrow  for  Seville  depart. 

DONA  ALDA. 

So  soon  !  Calaynos  knows  not  your  intent  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  131 

DON  LUIS. 

Not  yet.     An  urgent  matter  calls  me  off. 

But  ere  I  go — if,  lady,  you'll  permit — 

Some  words,  deep  freighted  with  your  happiness, 

Must  claim  a  notice. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Speak,  sir — I  attend. 

DON  LUIS. 

Not  now  ;  to-night,  if  you  will  meet  me  here. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Speak  now  :  why  wait  till  night  ? 

DON  LUIS. 

Nay,  bring  your  maid  ; 
Let  her  remain  in  ear-shot,  should  you  call: 
I  mean  no  wrong — I  fain  would  do  you  right. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Sir,  on  such  terms,  I  grant  what  you  request. 

DON  LUIS. 

Adieu,  till  then — poor  lady  ! 

\_Exeunt  DON  Luis  and  SOTO. 


132  CALAYNOS. 

DONA  ALDA. 

What  means  he  ? 

"  Poor  lady  !" — This  is  strange  beyond  a  dream . 
Why  does  he  pity  me  ? — why  look  so  sad, 
With  so  much  pain  and  trouble  on  his  brow ; 
As  if  he  bore  a  load  of  secret  wo, 
That  must  have  birth  with  many  a  fearful  pang '( 
I'll  seek  Calaynos,  and  entreat  advice — 
No,  no,  't  will  vex  him.    Sure  he  means  no  wrong; 
For  full-eyed  pity  never  troops  with  guilt. 
Martina,  did  you  mark  Don  Luis'  plight  ? — 
How  quick  he  left,  as  if  to  save  me  pain  ? 

MARTINA. 

He  seemed  dejected,  and  o'ercome  with  grief. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Can  you  conjecture  aught  ? 

MARTINA. 

Not  much,  nor  clearly. 

DONA  ALDA. 

What  do  you  think  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  133 

MARTINA. 

I  think  he  is  in  love. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Pshaw  !  that's  the  offspring  of  two  silly  heads — 
Soto  and  you  are  rid  to  death  with  fancies — 
He  is  too  wise  to  love  without  a  hope. 
Men  who  have  known  the  world  as  long  as  he, 
But  fall  in  love  with  great  estates  or  gold — 
Taking  the  encumbrant  maiden  as  an  ill : 
And  not  with  peril,  such  as  he  must  brook, 
Who  dares  to  love  the  wife  of  great  Calaynos. 

MARTINA. 

Yet  such  things  have  been. 

DONA  ALDA. 

O  yes ;  sung  in  ballads. 

MARTINA. 

Ay,  and  in  real  life,  lady  :     Queens  of  Spain 
Have  had  their  paramours. 
12* 


134  CALAYNOS. 

DONA  ALDA. 

So  might  it  be, 

Yet  never  hap  to  bride  of  a  Calaynos. 
No,  no ;  some  solemn  mystery  bore  him  down, 
Which  he  must  tell,  though  fain  he'd  'scape  the  act. 

MARTINA. 

(  What  mystery  deeper  than  an  untold  love  ? — 
What  keener  pang  than  telling  in  despair? 
Find  me  a  grief,  to  rend  a  loving  heart, 
More  cruel  than  separation  without  hope  \J 
Believe  me,  lady,  this  is  root  of  all. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Ha !  think  you  so  1 — Why  then,  I  meet  him  not. 
I'll  not  put  torture  to  his  tongueless  love ; 
I  will  not  tempt  him  certain  death  to  dare 
For  the  poor  consolation  .words  afford. 

MARTINA. 

I  may  be  wrong — perchance  I  may  be  wrong — 
Nay,  now  I  think,  I  cannot  but  be  wrong. 


A  TRAGEDY.  135 

He  would  conceal  his  love  from  outward  show 
Till  the  last  moment — I  am  sure  I'm  wrong: 
Yet  am  I  sure  he  loves  you,  though  he  goes 
Without  a  sign  to  show  the  love  he  feels. 

DONA   ALDA. 

I  will  not  hate  him  for  the  love  he  bears, 
Though  he  is  loving  'gainst  the  teeth  of  reason : 
No  man  can  say  whom  he  will  love,  whom  hate — 
The  act  o'erleaps  his  will ;  and  a  pure  heart 
That  burns  to  ashes,  yet  conceals  its  pain, 
For  fear  it  mar  its  hopeless  source  of  love, 
Is  not  to  be  despised,  or  lightly  held. 

MARTINA. 

You  are  too  cruel,  to  gain  and  not  return. 

DONA  ALDA. 

I  am  too  just  to  soil  Calaynos'  honour. 

MARTINA. 

I  never  thought  of  him. 


136  CALAYNOS. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Ne'er  thought  of  him  ! 
My  chiefest  spring  and  stimulant  of  good, 
Before  whose  face  crime  takes  an  humble  guise, 
And  blushes  at  its  meanness — never  thought ! 

MARTINA. 

I  think  so  much  of  you,  and  of  your  interest, 
As  to  forget  all  that  to  you  is  foreign. 

DONA  ALDA. 

And  can  you  separate  my  lord  from  me  ? — 
What  bears  on  him,  has  double  weight  for  me. 
Did  I  not  think  this  midnight  interview, 
Through  me,  held  things  of  moment  to  my  lord, 
I  ne'er  had  granted  it ;  for  he  shall  hear, 
Ere  I  have  time  for  thought,  the  substance  of  it. 

MARTINA. 

'Tis  but  time  lost : — I  will  not  urge  her  more, 
Lest  I  disgust  her  with  my  Soto's  lord. 
She  ever  flies  from  Luis  to  Calaynos ; 


A  TRAGEDY.  137 

And  when  I  name  the  Don,  she  bends  her  thoughts 
Full  on  her  lord,  and  speaks  of  him  alone. 
Her  admiration  has  nigh  grown  to  love. 

Luis  must  plead  to-night — pray  Heaven  he  win  ! 

[Aside. 

DONA  ALDA. 

What  are  you  muttering,  girl  1 

MARTINA. 

I  hummed  a  tune, 
Of  a  poor  squire  who  loved  a  noble  lady. 

DONA   ALDA. 

Heaven  grant  the  lady  was  a  maid,  not  wife ! 

MARTINA. 

I  cannot  tell. — When  comes  this  interview  1 

DONA  ALDA. 

What  hour  1 — O,  I  forgot. — He  named  no  hour. 

MARTINA. 

Well,  say  at  two. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Why,  that  is  very  late. 


138  CALAYNOS. 

MARTINA. 

The  better ;  for  no  listeners  will  be  near. 

That  base-born  cur,  that  prying  Oliver, 

Roams  o'er  the   house,  like  a  flushed  hound  on 

scent. — 

I  wonder  what  the  villain  would  nose  out  ? 
He  counts  us  all,  but  his  dear  lord,  as  game. 
I  vow,  I  have  no  peace :  at  every  door, 
Through  every  glass,  1  see  his  ugly  face. 

DONA  ALDA. 

He  is,  you  know,  Calaynos'  Mercury ; 

Who,  through  him,  watches  that  his  guest  is  served 

MARTINA. 

Well  then,  I'll  say  at  two.  [Exit  hastily. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Stay,  stay,  Martina  ! — 

She  hears  me  not.     One  hour  is  like  another ; 
'Twill  be  no  darker  when  two  strikes  than  nine. 
I  would  not  trust  this  man  at  such  a  time, 
Having  suspicion  that  he  bears  me  love, 


A  TRAGEDY.  139 

Did  I  not  hear  his  virtues  told  to  me, 

From  morn  till  eve,  by  my  most  thoughtful  lord. 

If  I  should  ask  Calaynos,  he'd  say — go  ; 

There  is  no  fear  where  good  Don  Luis  comes — 

Trust  him,  my  child ;  for  he  is  honour's  soul  !• 

Well,  well,  I'll  go — I  marvel  what  it  bodes?  [Exit. 


SCENE  II. 
The  study  of  CALAYNOS.     CALAYNOS  and  OLIVER. 

OLIVER. 

When  does  Don  Luis  leave  1 

CALAYNOS. 

Not  soon,  I  hope. 

His  visit  here  has  brought  the  colour  back 
To  his  wan  cheek,  and  lent  a  healthy  cast 
To  thoughts  that  sickened  o'er  his  former  woes. 
And  now,  he  looks  like  one  buoyed  up  with  hope ; 
Who'll  bravely  swim  above  dull  lethargy. — 


140 


CALAYXOS. 


We  surely  may  predict  much  good  of  him, 
When  he  returns  to  mingle  with  mankind : 
He  will  not  rust  in  ease ;  he'll  speak  and  act, 
And  do  the  utmost  God  has  given  him  power. 
Ah,  he  who  rests  in  sloth,  bears  half  the  guilt 
Of  him  who  goes  about  to  compass  ill ; 
For  heaven  has  lent  him  strength  to  conquer  sin, 
Which,  through  disuse,  lets  evil  run  unchecked. 
He  who  has  power  to  plant  one  seed  of  truth, 
And  does  it  not,  is  nigh  as  bad  as  he 
Who,  with  broad  hand,  sows  falsehood  through  the 
land. 

OLIVER. 

1  hope  with  you;  and  yet  I  fear,  my  lord. 

CALAYNOS. 
Fear  what?  Speak  out. — Again  at  your  suspicions  ! 

OLIVER. 

I  late  received  some  letters  from  Seville, 
Which  place  your  guest  in  no  too  virtuous  light. 
They  say — 


A   TRAGEDY.  141 

CALAYNOS. 

Before  you  speak,  pray  answer  me. — 
From  whom  this  news,  and  how  was  it  obtained  ? 
I  said  you'd  surfeit  doubt,  if  food  you  sought ; 
And  here  is  proof. — Go  on  ;  whence   came   this 
news  ? 

OLIVER. 

From  a  fast  friend,  who  loves  you  as  my  master : 
A  man  whom  anxious  guilt  would  ne'er  suspect 
Of  saying  aught  beyond  the  pale  of  truth. 
He  gained  intelligence  from  public  rumour — 
Why,  it  is  broad  and  common  as  the  sun ; 
But,  chiefly,  from  those  very  creditors, 
Who  got  your  gold,  and  then  enjoyed  the  trick. 

CALAYNOS. 

And  shall  I  doubt  my  friend  for  knaves  so  base, 
Who  thus  avow  they  practised  villany  ? — 
Did  he  not  tell  me  of  the  cunning  traps 
In  which  they  snared  him,  in  which  now  you  fall  ? 
If  they're  so  lost  to  shame,  as  to  confess 
13 


142  CALAYNOS. 

That  through  a  trick  they  wronged  my  confidence, 
How  shall  I  now  believe,  though  seeming  true, 
The  tangled  tale  they  blush  not  to  unfold  ? 

OLIVER. 

Nay,  sir,  if  you  fling  logic  in  my  teeth, 
And  reason  facts  to  falsehoods,  I  have  done. 

CALAYNOS. 

Can  you  not  mask  your  thoughts,  if  they  offend  I 

OLIVER. 
Next  God  comes  truth,  and  in  that  rank  I  love  it ! 

CALAYNOS. 

Sir,  I  have  borne  unmurmuring,  day  by  day, 
Your  wily  hints,  though  wounded  to  the  quick — 
I  have  been  vexed  by  your  sly,  boyish  tricks, 
That  sought  to  lead  a  man  of  twice  your  years  ; 
I  told  you  once  before,  I  tell  you  now, 
That  guilty  cunning  which  preys  on  itself, 
Content  with  proof  would  make  a  sophist  stare, 


A  TRAGEDY.  143 

You  have  mista'en  for  wisdom. — Leave  me,  sir — 
To-morrow  I  shall  want  a  secretary. 

OLIVER. 

Good  heaven!  my  lord,  you  would  not  cast  me  off? 
You  would  not  thrust  me  on  this  evil  world  1 — 

CALAYNOS. 

You  will  see  all  the  traps,  shun  all  the  snares, 
And  prosper  bravely,  as  the  wily  do. — 
Nay,  now  I  think,  I  have  another  house 
Beyond  the  mountains,  out  of  sight  and  hearing  ; 
Go  there  and  dwell — the  pension  is  the  same. 

OLIVER. 

Spare  me,  my  lord  !     Be  just  if  you  are  cruel; 
Nor  taunt  me  with  the  pay  I  never  sought. 
Have  I  loved  gold,  or  have  I  hoarded  it  ? — 
Where  is  the  wealth  you  gave  in  my  command  'I 
If  I  must  go,  I  go  without  a  coin, 
Whose  yellow  look  might  curse  me  with  its  shame ! 

CALAYNOS. 

I  never  knew  in  you  a  sordid  wish. 


144  CALAYNOS. 

OLIVER. 

0  no,  O  no,  you  knew  me  from  a  child : 

1  sat  upon  your  knee,  and  called  you  father; 
Played  with  your  tasseled  sword — ah,  then   you 

smiled, 

And  kissed  my  forehead,  for  that  tender-  name. — 
Our  cheeks  were  touching,  when  you  taught  me 

letters ; 

O,  you  were  patient  then,  nor  roughly  chid 
Your  stammering  scholar  if  he  spelled  awry. 
You  did  not  taunt  me  with  a  love  of  gold — 
You  did  not  stand  upon  your  awful  power, 
And  tell  your  nursling  to  go  forth  and  die ! 
Ah  no  ;  you  told  me  e'er  to  love  you  thus ; 
And  for  that  lesson  I  am  wrecked  at  last  ! 

CALAYNOS. 

Poor  boy !  poor  boy  !  Nay,  then  remain — 

OLIVER. 

Not  1 ! 
I'd  rather  starve  than  eat  unwelcome  bread. — 


A  TRAGEDY.  145 

That  too  you  taught  me,  and  I  thank  you,  sir. 
I  value  freedom  o'er  all  else  besides ; 
Nor  would  I  be  dependent  for  a  throne. 
To-morrow  you'll  be  happy — I'll  be  free. 

CALAYNOS.       . 

No,  no ;  it  shall  not  be.     Come  here,  my  son — 
Come  close  to  me — I  .am  again  your  father; 
Nor  shall  e'en  friendship  sunder  time-knit  love. 

OLIVER. 
Your  blessing,  sir : — 'twill  lighten  many  a  toil. 

CALAYNOS. 

Are  you  resolved? 

OLIVER. 
Ay,  though  my  heart-strings  snap  ! 

CALAYNOS. 

God  bless  you,  son  ! 

OLIVER. 

God  keep  you  from  the  snares ! 
13* 


146  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

Away,  away !  lest  you  revoke  my  blessing. 

[Exit  OLIVER. 

He  does  as  I  had  done.     O,  stiff-necked  pride ! 
That  chokes  each  avenue  to  humble  love — 
That  walls  the  glowing  heart  with  stubborn  ice, 
And  leaves  the  beds  of  feeling  cold  and  dry. 
Farewell !    The  first  bright  link  is  torn  away ; 
Thus  time  will  rend  the  reliques  one  by  one.     [Exit. 


SCENE  III. 

The  great  hall  in  the  castle.    Enter  DONA  ALDA  and  MARTINA. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Has  it  struck  two  ? 

MARTINA. 

'Tis  near  that  hour,  my  lady. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Before  or  after  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  147 

MARTINA. 

Just  before,  my  lady. 

DONA  ALDA. 

We  are  too  soon. — The  clock  is  surely  wrong. 

MARTINA. 

'Tis  natural  haste.     He  knows  a  woman  well. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Yes,  yes ;  a  woman  never  waits  for  ill ; 
We  always  meet  it. — Did  you  hear  a  step  ? 

MARTINA. 

Not  L— Did  you? 

DONA  ALDA. 

Perhaps  it  was  my  heart, 
That  beats  so  painfully  against  my  side. 
Would   it  were   over !   (dock  strikes.)   Hark !   there 

strikes  the  clock ; 

It  sounds  as  if  'twould  wake  the  castle  up. — 
Did  you  e'er  note  before  how  loud  it  strikes  ? 


148  CALAYNOS. 

This  is  not  right — I  feel  it  is  not  right. 

I'll  leave  the  hall. — See,  how  those  portraits  frown  ! 

As  if  I'd  done  some  crime,  or  was  about  it. 

MARTINA. 

You  are  too  late — look,  where  Don  Luis  comes  ! 
He  means  no  wrong. — Nay,  lady,  I'll  be  near. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Sure  never  evil  wore  so  smooth  a  face. 

(Enter  DON  Luis.     MARTINA  retires  within.) 

DON  LUIS. 
Your  prompt  attention  chides  my  lingering  steps. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Speak  quickly,  sir:  I  have  short  time  to  hear. 

DON  LUIS. 
What,  without  more  delay? 

DONA  ALDA. 

Right  to  the  purpose. 

DON  LUIS. 

O,  then  prepare  your  ears  to  hear  a  tale 


A  TRAGEDY.  149 

Shall  shake  your  soul,  and  task  your  tottering  mind 
To  bear  its  feeble  body  firmly  up. 

DONA  ALDA. 

With  such  dread  prelude,  what  must  I  expect '? 

DON  LUIS. 

First,  lest  it  seem  'gainst  nature,  or  to  prove 
That  I  am  quite  devoid  of  gratitude 
Towards  him  whose  kindness  I  have  felt,  and  feel, 
Know  the  full  cause  which  prompts  rne  to  the  deed. 
Know  'tis  to  see  you  righted,  who  are  wronged — 
Wronged    in   a    way   that    most   concerns    your 

honour — 
Wronged  by  a  wretch  in  whom  you  have  most 

trust ; 

But  to  be  righted  by  a  man  who  loves. 
Yes,  yes,  I  love  you — love  you  with  a  heart 
That  ne'er  before  knew  love  for  womankind. 
But  yet  I  love  you  purely  as  a  saint : 
I  dare  but  worship,  hope  not  to  approach  ; 
I  have  not  thought  to  win  a  smile  or  sign : 


1 50  CALAYNOS. 

I  bow  in  homage ;  sacrifice  a  heart, 

Though  torn  and  bleeding,  spotless  as  the  lamb. 

Nay,  more,  I  pray  to  have  my  love  forgiven, 

Whose  adoration  may  offend  your  eyes  ; 

For  oft  devout  and  reverend  worship  seems, 

In  others  sight,  no  purer  than  foul  sin. 

Yet  must  I  tell  my  love ;  my  dammed  up  heart 

At  length  has  swept  each  choking  fear  away, 

And  caused  a  flood  in  which,  perchance,  I'll  drown. 

O,  spare  me,  lady  ; — say  you  can  forgive  ! 

DONA  ALDA. 

Audacious  man,  dare  you  o'erleap  the  brink, 
Nor  know  the  fearful  depth  that  yawns  below  ? 
Have  you  e'er  looked,  from  yonder  window's  edge, 
Down  on  the  grisly  rocks  that  jut  beneath, 
Ragged  and  cruel  as  the  chafed  boar's  fell  tusks  1 
Have  you  e'er  turned  your  dizzy  eyes  aloft, 
To  view  the  tower  which  hangs  above  those  crags  I 
On  that  same  tower,  years  gone,  a  malpert  page 
Sighed   forth    his    love   to    our    great-grandsire's 
daughter ; 


A  TRAGEDY.  151 

Next  day  they  found  him  on  the  rocks  below, 
Mangled  and  dead. — Some  said  he  slipped  and  fell; 
But  none  knew  how,  or  why. — Beware,  fair  sir, 
If  not  sure  footed,  how  you  walk  that  tower  ! 

DON   LUIS. 

Alas,  alas  !  this  is  a  woful  tale, 

That  one  should  fall  for  love  ! — You  pity  him  ? 

DONA  ALDA. 

Not  for  his  love  he  fell,  but  telling  it : 
There  was  the  crime  that  caused  his  grievous  slip. 
Better  his  fire  of  love  had  burned  to  dust, 
Than  roused  up  sleeping  justice  with  its  blaze. 

DON  LUIS. 

Have  you  no  feeling  for  a  burning  heart, 
That  cannot  quench  its  fire,  except  in  death  ? 

DONA  ALDA. 

"  Suffer  in  silence,"  is  the  legend  graven 
Beneath  the  shield  that  crowns  our  castle  gate : 
When  here  you  came,  you   passed   beneath  that 

shield, 
Yet  have  not  read  the  wisdom  it  contains. 


1 52  CALAYNOS. 

DON  LUIS. 

Sweet  lady,  hear  me. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Nay,  no  more  of  love. 
Another  word,  I'll  call  Calaynos  forth. — 
Martina,  are  you  there? 

MARTINA.  (Re-entering.) 
I  am,  my  lady. 

DON  LUIS. 

Fool !  get  you  gone.  [Exit  MARTINA. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Ha!  dare  you  go? — Come  back! 
Good  night,  good  night;  I  have  o'erstaid  my  time. — 
Sir,  thank  your  gentle  bearing  for  your  safety. 

[Going. 

DON  LUIS. 

Lady,  return ;  you  have  not  heard  me  out : 

This  is  but  prologue  to  the  tragedy ; 

Now  comes  the  guilty  tale  of  which  I  spoke. 


A   TRAGEDY.  153 

DONA'ALDA. 

Nay,  there  was  guilt  enough  in  what  you  said : 
Tax  not  my  ears  to  bear  a  weightier  load. — 
Farewell.  (Going) 

DON  LUIS. 

And  you  are  lost — for  ever  lost ! 
O,  I  beseech  you  listen,  on  your  life ! 

DONA  ALDA. 

Proceed — I'll  hear ;  but  not  a  word  of  love. 

DON  LUIS. 

No,  'tis  of  hate,  of  most  malicious  hate — 
Hate  self-engendered,  without  cause  or  motive — 
Against  you  borne  by  one  you  dearly  trust ; 
Shown  in  the  heavy  wrong  'neath  which  you  live, 
Though  all  unweeting  that  such  crime  exists. 

DOXA  ALDA. 

Who  does  me  wrong? — One  whom  I  love  and  trust  ? 
Martina  ? 

DUN  LL'ls. 

No ;  strike  nearer  to  yourself. 
14 


154  CALAYNOS. 

DONA*  ALDA. 

Then  Oliver ;  for  he  is  next  my  lord. 

DON  LUIS. 

Your  lord  himself. 

DONA   ALDA. 

'Tis  false !  'tis  false  as  sin  ! 
I  will  not  waste  a  moment  on  a  lie. — 
Get  hence,  you  scurvy  thing,  base  hypocrite, 
That  thus  would  stab  your  benefactor's  back  ! — 
You  dare  not  face  him,  coward,  and  say  this, 
Lest  he  should  whip  you  with  his  undrawn  sword  ! 
Get  hence!  'twas  fit  you  should  crawl  forth  at  night, 
If  you  must  spit  your  pent  up  venom  forth ; 
But  keep  your  slimy  poison  from  my  ear, 
Or  I  may  crush  you,  toad  ! 

DON  LUIS. 

Be  calm,  and  hear. 

DONA   ALDA. 

Be  mad,  and  rave !  I  might  forgive  you  then. — 
Yes,  you  are  mad  ;  but  you  shall  have  a  cage  ! 


A  TRAGEDY.  155 

DON  LUIS. 

I  tell  you,  mortal  ne'er  such  wrong  endured — 

DONA  ALDA. 

As  you  dare  fling  upon  me. 

DON  LUIS. 

Hear  me  out. — 
Who  do  you  think  your  lord,  Calaynos,  is  ? 

DONA  ALDA. 

The  noblest,  greatest,  wisest  man  in  Spain  ! 

DON  LUIS. 

I  tell  you,  lady,  he  is  one  half  Moor ; 
His  other  half  holds  every  baseness  in  it, 
That  spots  the  nature  of  the  lowest  white. 

DONA  ALDA. 

A  Moor,  a  Moor — a  lie  ! 

DON  LUIS. 

His  name,  his  name  ! 

Is  it  not  Moorish,  from  the  first  to  last  ? — 
'Tis  sung  of  in  our  ballads. 


1 56  CALAYNOS. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Gracious  heaven  ! 
I  never  thought  of  that — I  never  thought — 

DON  LUIS. 

Look  at  these  portraits,  dark  by  blood,  not  age, 
Clad  in  the  Moorish  steel  from  crest  to  heel. — 
Thus  scowled  they  on  the  ranks  of  Ferdinand, 
When  they  mowed  down  the  brightest  flowers  of 

Spain ; 

Thus  proudly  looked  they,  thus  they  him  defied, 
When  round  these  walls  his  leaguering  armies  lay ; 
Thus  grimly  smiled  they,  when  the  baffled  king 
Was  forced  to  grant  them  lands  he  could  not  hold. 
Why,  are  you  purblind,  that  you  see  them  not — 
These  dusky  founders  of  his  powerful  house  ? 

DONA    ALDA. 

It  cannot  be ;  my  father  then  had  known — 

DON  LUIS. 

Yes,  he  was  poor,  and  sold  you  like  a  slave — 
A  precious,  fair-skinned  slave,  to  sate  a  Moor  ! 


A   TRAGEDY.  157 

You,  you,  the  brightest  jewel  in  all  Spain, 
Became  a  thing  to  fill  a  miser's  chests : — 
Why,  he'd  have  bartered  with  the  devil  for  you ! 
Would  you  have  proof? — I'll  bring  a  crowd  of  it. 
This  why  Calaynos  kept  you  from  Seville — 
This  cause  of  the  secluded  life  you  lead  ; 
Forbid  to  mingle  in  the  joys  of  life, 
To  wrap  his  damned,  black  mystery  closer  up  ! 

DONA  ALDA. 

O,  misery,  despair  !  Where  shall  I  turn  1 

DON  LUIS. 
Turn  to  me,  dearest,  I  will  succour  you. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Avaunt !  you  child  of  hell,  you  torturer  ! 

Foul,   tempting   fiend,    through   you   I   thus   have 

fallen. — 

Why  came  you  here,  to  mar  my  paradise, 
With  knowledge  proffered  by  the  hand  of  crime  ? 

DON  LUIS. 

O,  then  return  ;  go  to  your  darling's  bed  ; 
14* 


158  CALAYNOS. 

Crawl  to  his  side,  and  kiss  his  thick-lipped  mouth ; 
Play  with  his  curly  pate,  and  call  him  fair ; 
Pray  heaven  to  bless  you  with  a  hybrid  race  ! 
O,  hug  him  close,  close  as  fools  clasp  a  sin, 
And  dream   you're  happy;    that   were  wise  and 

kind. — 
If  you  have  woman's  spirit,  bear  it  not ! 

DONA   ALDA. 

O,  foul — O,  foul !  and  they  to  do  this  thing — 
Father  and  husband ! — Oh,  my  heart  will  burst ! 

DON  LUIS. 

I  tell  you,  you  were  cheated  by  this  Moor, 
Lied  to  and  cozened,  made  a  merchandise, 
Sold  to  the  highest  bidder — he  bid  high. 
Now  he  might  sell  you  to  some  other  hand, 
If  he  could  get  a  profit  on  his  ware. — 
What  worse  than  this?     What  worse  can  come 

than  this? — 

He'll  pack  you  off  to  Africa  some  day ! 
Ah,  you  have  breathed  deceit,  and  fed  on  guilt ; 


A  TRAGEDY. 

Thought  him  a  saint,  who  was  at  heart  a  fiend. 
Poor  child,  poor  child,  now  could  I  weep  for  you ; 
But  anger  chokes  the  kindlier  channels  up, 
With  thinking  on  this  base,  heart-cheating  Moor, 
This- 

DONA   ALDA. 

Spare  me  ! — Calaynos —  [She faints. 

DON  LUIS. 

But  one  wray  remains. 

Now  nerve  me,  love,  to  bear  my  precious  freight. 

[He  carries  her  off. 

{After  a  pause,  entej-  CALAYNOS.) 

CALAYNOS. 

Methought  I  heard  a  voice  repeat  my  name ; 
And  then  a  hurried  rush  of  trampling  feet. 
No,  'twas  a  fancy ;  all  is  still. — These  lights — 
Why  burn  they  here,  at  ihis  unwonted  hour  ? — 
Watching,  like  grief,  the  dull,  cold  midnight  through. 
This  is  a  strange  neglect,  unknown  before, 
And  dangerous.     I  must  draw  a  tighter  rein. 

These  knavish  servants — Ha  !  I  heard  a  noise, 

the  casement. 


1G(F  CALAVNOS. 

Like  the  dull  sound  a  flying  courser  makes, 
When  urged  to  speed  along  the  yielding  sod. 
Some  of  the  deer  have  broken  through  the  pale, 
And  gambol  nimbly  'neath  the  winking  stars. 
Bright  nightly  watchers,  tell  your  secrets  now  ; 
Unfold  to  me  the  mystery  of  your  being  ; 
Say  why  ye  came,  how  long  ye  thus  have  kept 
Your  faithful  vigils  o'er  this  atom,  earth. 
Were  you  but  formed  for  man  to  gaze  upon, 
To  flatter  him,  and  puff  his  spirit  up  ; 
Or  in  creation's  scale  do  ye  hold  place 
Of  more  import  than  sages  ever  dreamed  ? 
Ye  misty  pleiads,  where  has  gone  the  star 
That,  ages  since,  among  ye  disappeared  ? 
How  men  with  wild  conjectures  vex  their  minds, 
To  find  what  cause  could  blot  that  fiery  orb : 
Yet  if  a  brother  mortal  leaves  his  sphere, 
From  this  vast  human  firmament  struck  out, 

They  pass  the  lifeless  clay  without  a  thought 

* 
Of  why  he  left,  or  where  his  elements. 

Pale,  dusty  path,  that,  in  the  depths  of  space, 


A   TRAGEDY.  16] 

Hangs  like  a  smoky  track  behind  the  wheel 
Of  some  vast,  burning  orb ;  but,  to  the  sage, 
Resolves  to  starry  pebbles  paving  heaven — 
Nay,  to  great  suns,  to  satellites,  to  systems, 
In  myriad  numbers  whirling  on  through  space — 
O,  what  is  far  beyond  you  ?     Can  ye  see 
The  limit  that  hems  in  the  universe  ? 
O,  what  remains  hid  from  the  prying  glass, 
Whose  added  strength  looks  still  on  other  worlds  I 
Yet  with  this  awful  knowledge,  impious  man — 
Ah,  yes,  the  meanest  of  the  clay-born  herd, 
Will  strut  and  vapour,  as  if  he  alone 
Filled  the  whole  universe,  and  gave  it  laws. 
Lo  !  meek-eyed  morn,  like  a  pale  beggar,  knocks 
With  trembling  fingers  'gainst  night's  eastern  gate. 
Poor  Oliver,  this  morn  is  black  to  thee  ! 
I  must  retire.  (Knocking.')     What  can  that  knocking 
mean  1 — 

Where  are  the  sluggish  knaves  that  tend  the  gate  '. 

[Bell  rings. 


162  CALAYNOS. 

Ho,  Oliver,  come  forth!     (Enter  a  Servant.")     Quick, 
ope  the  gate.  [Exit  Servant. 

This  early  summons  bodes  some  weighty  matter. 
(Enter  OLIVER.) 
OLIVER. 

My  lord,  you  called  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Nay,  get  to  sleep  again. 
I  know  not  why  I  called — 'twas  habit — go. 

OLIVER. 

You  know  full  well  I  did  not  sleep  last  night. — 
'Tis  useless  to  attempt  it. 

(Enter  a  Forester  wounded.} 
CALAYNOS. 

Who  are  you, 

That  startle  morning  ere  the  cock  has  crowed  '? 
Wounded  and  bleeding  !     If  I  see  aright, 
You  wear  the  livery  of  my  foresters. 

FORESTER. 

My  wound  is  nothing ;  but  the  way  it  came 
May  much  concern  your  lordship,  if  you'll  hear. 


A  TRAGEDY.  163 

.  CALAYNOS. 

Say  on. 

FORESTER. 

Well,  senior,  as  I  went  my  rounds, 
Just  ere  the  break  of  day,  to  watch  the  herd, 
I  saw  two  horsemen  spurring  to  the  blood 
Across  the  park,  as  if  to  gain  the  hills. 
The  foremost  bore  a  lady  in  his  arms, 
Who  seemed  nigh  dead  with  fear,  or  dead  outright: 
Well,  this  one  passed  ere  I  could  cross  his  way. 
Beside  the  second  rode  a  girl  I'd  seen — 
My  lady's  maid,  I  think  her  name's  Martina; 
But  who  the  man  was  I  can  scarcely  tell. 
Well,  sir,  I  threw  my  staff  across  his  path, 
And  bade  him  stand:  out  came  his  heavy  sword  ; 
With  a  side  blow  he  struck  me  down  to  earth, 
And  split  my  skull  with  this  unmanly  wound. 
The  coward !  If  I'd  had  a  sword,  my  lord, 
I  warrant  you  I'd  made  the  fellow  leap. 
But  then  you  see  I  was  unarmed,  my  lord, 
And  it  was  nearly  dark.     I  stood  just  so, 
With  my  staff  raised — 


164  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 
Here's  gold,  to  heal  your  wound.  (Offers  money.') 

FORESTER. 

I'd  rather  not. 

My  wife  will  cure  my  wound ;  and  she'll  be  glad 
I  got  a  wound  in  trying  to  serve  you.  [Exit. 

CALAYMOS. 

There  goes  a  man,  a  man  without  a  price, 
Who  takes  no  fee  for  virtue  !     Oliver. 

OLIVER. 

My  lord. 

CALAYNOS. 

What  think  you  of  this  fellow's  tale? 
Soto  has  done  us  service,  were  it  not 
That  her  elopement  will  sore  vex  my  lady. 

OLIVER. 
But  who  the  foremost  horseman  1 — whom  bore  he  I 

CALAYNOS. 

That's  strange  indeed.     Go  call  Don  Luis  here. 

A"./!/   ("j.lVKK.    lt:l*1i'l. 


A  TRAGEDY.  165 

Here  is  some  gossip  for  a  week  or  two  : 
There'll  be  no  grumblers  here  till  this  is  o'er. 
I  too  am  rid  of  one  whose  wanton  breath 
Forced  into  birth  my  lady's  discontent, 
To  choke  her  peace  with  its  unhealthy  sprouts. 
(Re-enter  OLIVER.) 

OLIVER. 

Don  Luis,  sir,  ne'er  saw  his  couch  last  night : 
And  all  his  lighter  luggage  is  removed. 

CALAYNOS. 

Call  Dona  Alda. 

OLIVER. 

Sir,  I  passed  her  room  ; 
The  door  was  open,  not  a  soul  within. 

CALAYNOS. 

What  can  this  mean  ? — Why  bite  your  trembling  lip, 
And  bend  your  eyes  so  sharply  on  my  face  ? 

OLIVER. 
Ah,  what  sad  prophets  may  our  fears  become ! 

CALAYNOS. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

15 


166  CALAYNOS. 


OLIVER. 

My  lord,  I  dare  not  say. 


CALAYNOS. 

'Twill  not  offend — speak  out. 

OLIVER. 

You  promise  me? 

CALAYNOS. 

I  vow  I  will  not  say  or  do  you  ill. 

OLIVER. 
The  foremost  horseman — who  was  he  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Go  on. 

OLIVER. 

Don  Luis. 

CALAYNOS. 

Ha  !    The  lady  whom  he  bore 
Was— 

OLIVER. 

Pardon  rne,  for  she  was  Dona  Alda. 


A  TRAGEDY.  167 

CALAYNOS. 

Monstrous !    And  wags  the  tongue  that  dare  say 
this '( 

OLIVER. 

'Tis  true,  my  lord,  or  rend  me  limb  from  limb. 

CALAYNOS. 

Rash  boy,  I  will  be  calm — calm  as  the  storm, 
Ere  on  your  head  its  gloomy  terrors  burst! 

(Enter  a  SERVANT.) 

SERVANT. 

My  lord,  some  labouring  men  beset  the  gate, 
Who  beg  to  see  you ;  for  they  boldly  say 
That,  as  they  went  to  work,  they  saw  a  man, 
Mounted  and  armed  like  a  stout  cavalier, 
Flying  with  Lady  Alda  in  his  arms. 
On  foot  they  could  not  reach  him — 

CALAYNOS. 

Out!  begone!  [Exit  SERVANT. 

These  torturing  fiends  are  leagued  to  drive  me  mad! 


168  CALAYNOS. 

OLIVER. 

My  lord,  my  lord  ! 

CALAYNOS. 

Why  stand  you  there,  dull  sloth, 
And  stare  upon  me  with  your  vacant  eyes? 
Slay  wench   and  paramour. — Mount,  mount,  and 
follow ! 

(OLIVER  snatches  a  sword  from  the  wall.) 
Ha !  the  hot  blood  of  all  the  Moors  is  up, 
And  must  have  blood  to  lay  it. — Mount,  I  say  ! — 
You'll  not  desert  me  now  1 

OLIVER. 

Not  while  my  soul 
Clings  to  its  wretched  clay. — Shall  I  slay  both  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Slay  both  ;  without  a  thought  of  mercy  slay  ! 
The  shallow  fools  have  fallen  in  love  with  death. 

OLIVER. 
Murder  will  blot  my  soul  when  I  return. 


A  TRAGEDY.  169 

CALAYNOS. 

The  murder  of  two  wolves  that  tore  your  lord  ! 

OLIVER. 
Mine  to  obey ; — I  question  not  your  mandates. 

CALAYNOS. 

Stay,  Oliver ;  their  blood  must  be  on  me.    • 

OLIVER. 
No,  no ;  I'd  rather  do  it. 

CALAYNOS. 

O  God,  forgive — 

Forgive  my  impious  rage !    Withhold  thy  frown, 
Till  I  have  sifted,  to  the  very  dust, 
This  hideous  matter !    Follow,  but  slay  not. 
Disguise  your  form,  and  seem  not  what  you  are — 
The  more  like  them  who  hid  their  acts  as  thieves. 
Learn  all  you  can,  and  then  return  to  me : 
Slow  justice  is  more  certain  of  its  end. 
If  she  repent,  and  you  are  moved  to  pity, 
And  dare  to  bring  her  where  I  catch  a  glimpse 

Of  her  repentant  features,  by  the  gods 
15* 


170  CALAYNO?. 

I'll  pitch  you  from  the  walls  ! — Be  still,  my  heart ; 
No  man  shall  see  the  great  Calaynos  moved.  [Aside. 

OLIVER. 
I  will  obey  in  all. 

CALAYNOS. 

Away,  away  !     [Exit  OLIVEH. 
Where  shall  I  turn?     O,  what  thing  shall  I  do  ? 
How  have  I  scorned  the  men  of  ancient  Rome, 
Who  left  their  fortunes  to  a  flying  bird  ; 
But,  now,  I'd  hang  my  doubts  upon  a  die, 
Or  whirling  coin,  and  follow  it  like  fate. 
O  vain  philosophy  !  is  this  thy  aid  1 
When  troubles  darken,  and  the  passions  rage, 
Must  the  philosopher  become  a  man — 
A  feeble  man,  a  very  fool  of  impulse  1 
'Tis  all  in  vain,  I  cannot  drive  my  thoughts 
Into  their  wonted  channels  ;  cannot  weigh, 
Nor  calmly  speculate  upon  my  grief. 
O  Alda,  Alda,  thoughts  of  thee  come  back, 
And  drive  all  speculation  from  my  brain  !  — 


A  TRAGEDY.  171 

Why  here  am  I,  who  thought  to  will  to  do, 
Who  thought  I'd  schooled  my  passion  as  a  child, 
Raving,  like  mad,  o'er  one  of  life's  poor  wrongs  ! 
How  brave,  how  brave  in  me  to  teach  long  suf 
fering, 
And,  when  I  suffer,  shrink  without  a  tug ! 

0  Alda,  Alda,  never  love  thee  more, 
Never  behold  thee,  never  call  thee  mine  ! — 

1  have  a  heart  that  mocks  philosophy ; 

Burst  forth,  my  heart — I'm  but  a  man  at  last! 

[  Weeps. 


172  CALAYNOS. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.     The  great  hatt  in  CALAYNOS'  Castle.     Enter 
CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

The  strife  is  vain ;  I  cannot  think  nor  read  ; 

My  mind  will  wander,  and  my  eyes  grow  dim  : 

She  clings  to  me  like  sin !  I  catch  myself, 

Involuntary,  dreaming  o'er  the  page, 

And  all  my  dream  of  her.     Day  follows  day, 

Yet  deeper  sinks  the  barb.     Each  hour  my  heart. 

Like  a  calmed  vessel  next  a  hideous  rock, 

Heaves  near  this  one  idea.     I  hear  her  name 

Breathed  by  the  air,  in  every  gale  that  blows ; 

I  feel  her  hand  upon  my  shoulder  laid, 

And  sigh  that  sense  can  cheat.     O  shame,  shame, 

shame ! 

Thy  slime  clings  round  me,  and  doth  drag  me  down. 
O  pride,  O  o'erblown  pride,  on  which  I  swarn 


A   TRAGEDY.  173 

In  life's  calm  seas,  and  gaily  smiled  at  fate  ; — 

Thou,  in  the  tempest's  hour,  dost  toss  me  up, 

On  the  dread  top  of  every  howling  wave, 

To  send  me  thundering  in  its  black  abyss ! — 

Better  beneath  the  choking  brine  to  sink, 

And  die  untortured.     Why  did  she  deceive  1 

Why  do  this  damning  act  1     If  thunder  roars, 

Men  look  above  their  heads,  to  find  a  cloud  ; 

But  I  am  withered  by  a  scathing  shock, 

And  yet  the  cause  know  not.     What,  Alda  false  ? 

I'll  not  believe  it — I  am  not  awake ; 

I'll  wake,  ere  long,  and  find  her  by  my  side ; 

Or  she'll  return,  and  tell  it  all  to  me. 

It  is  a  trick  to  try  rne.     She  is  hid, 

In  some  odd  nook,  to  watch  her  jealous  lord ; 

Next  thing  she'll  sally  out,  and  mock  my  grief. — 

She  false  !     I'd  staked  my  soul  upon  her  truth. 

Ah,  'tis  a  trick,  a  trick — a  trick  to  damn  ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?     Who  shall  direct  me  now  ? 

(  Turns  to  the  portraits.) 
I  dare  not  question  you,  ye  men  of  blood  ; 


J74  CALAYNOS. 

I  know  your  answer — draw  the  sword  and  kill! 
Fling  out  our  banner,  fire  the  culverins, 
Call  in  the  war-bred  from  their  ancient  hills, 
And  let  the  trembling  valleys  hear,  aghast, 
Calaynos  wars  with  man  !     O,  empty  threat ! 
Blood  cannot  heal  the  scars  which  seam  my  heart. 

(Opens  the  casement.) 

The  very  sky  is  red,  is  red  as — blood ! 
Down,  tempting  devil,  down — I  will  not  murder: 
'Tis  the  last  print  of  evening's  fiery  foot 
That  burns  in  yonder  clouds.     Ere  long,  the  night 
Shall  fall  as  black  as  memory  on  my  soul — 
O  heaven  !  without  a  hope  to  light  my  path, 
One  starry  hope,  to  lend  its  guiding  beam : 
Stumbling,  and  lost  in  darkness,  on  I  grope 
To  death — O  yes,  to  death — to  peace  and  rest. 
What  dusky  clouds  o'erclimb  yon  eastern  peaks  '( 
A  storm  1  Come  on,  I  like  thy  looks,  my  mate! 
Shake  thy  red  lightnings  o'er  this  wicked  world — 
Strike  all  the  guilty  with  thy  burning  hand- 
Pour  thy  cruel  hail  upon  their  naked  heads — 


A  TRAGEDY.  175 

O'erturn  their  habitations,  root  them  out — 
Drive  them,  like  sheep,  before  thy  angry  face ! — 
Nay,  let  them  go :  slay  all  the  innocent — 
Slay  all  the  sufferers,  all  that  ache  'neath  wrongs ; 
For  guilt  can  live  in  peace,  and  smile  at  them  ! 

(Thunder.) 

A  Ida,  awake  !  the  God  of  heaven  is  out, 
The  God  of  justice — no,  the  storm  will  pass; 
Or  if  it  strikes,  perchance  't  will  kill  a  child. 
O,  what  a  weary  life  is  mine — strike  me, 
In  mercy  strike ! 

(Enter  OLIVER.) 

Ha  !  thou'st  returned,  my  son  ? 

[Embraces  him. 

Didst  thou  see  Dona  A  Ida  on  thy  way  ? 

OLIVER. 

Yes,  yes,  I  saw  too  much — Alas !  my  lord, 
What  dreadful  thing  has  brought  this  change  about  ? 
A  month  ago  I  left  thee  in  thy  prime, 
And,  now,  thou'rt  old  and  wrinkled. 


176  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

Yes,  my  son, 

Men  may  be  aged,  yet  not  be  much  in  years ; 
My  heart  is  old  and  wrinkled  as  my  brow. 
I  have  not  long  to  live;  I  feel  it  here. 
Yet,  ere  I  go,  I  fain  would  tidings  gain 
Of  Dona  Alda. — Is  she  happy  now  ? 

OLIVER. 

An  hour  ago,  I  passed  a  wretched  town ; 
But,  ere  I  left,  a  squalid  thing  of  rags 
Went  by  me,  yet  begged  not;  though  I  was  clad, 
Painted,  and  bearded  like  a  cavalier. 
I  gave  it,  all  unasked,  it  looked  so  sad — 
That  thing  was  Lady  Alda. 

CALAYNOS. 

Base-born  dog  ! 
And  did  you  dare  to  give  her  charity  1 

OLIVER. 

'Twas  of  your  gold  I  gave. 


A   TRAGEDY.  177 

CALAYNOS. 

O,  pardon  me : 

The  devil  in  my  blood  will  not  be  laid. 
And  did  she  take  it  with  a  courtly  grace, 
Learned  at  Seville  from  her  bewitching  Don ; 
Or  did  she  clutch  it  like  a  common  drab? 
Say  on  ;  I'm  sorrow  proof. 

OLIVER. 

Ah,  no,  my  lord  ; 

She  hardly  felt  the  gold  touch  her  thin  palm  ; 
And  then  she  smiled,  so  sorrowful,  so  sweet, 
As  one  unused  to  kindness. 

CALAYNOS. 

Know'st  thou  more  ? 

I'd  steeled  my  heart  to  hear  the  blackest  tale, 
But  this  doth  blacken  fancy. 

OLIVER. 

Few  my  words. 

Of  her  dark  story  much  I  could  not  gather  ; 
And  what  I  gained  I  came  at  by  report. 
16 


178  CALAYNOS. 

She  fled  with  thy  false  friend  too  well  thou  know'st; 
But  why,  is  known  to  him  and  her  alone. 
From  some  vague  hints,  I  think  the  guilt  not  hers ; 
But  that  Don  Luis  used  the  foulest  means, 
And  so  achieved  his  wish  most  treacherously. — 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  it. 

CALAYNOS. 

Bless  thee,  heaven  ! 

OLIVER. 

She  lived  with  him  awhile,  but  then  she  left ; 
This  too  a  mystery ; — though  I  heard  his  knave, 
His  vile  familiar,  Soto,  said  in  scorn — 
"  She  was  too  grand  a  lady  for  a  mistress !" 
Since  then,  she  wanders  on  from  town  to  town, 
With  death's  fell  signet  stamped  upon  her  brow, 
Looking  like  grief  in  animated  stone. 

CALAYNOS. 

Yet  the  sun  shines,  and  yet  this  villain  lives  ! 
O,  slow,  slow  justice,  must  I  be  thy  tool  I 
(Storm  increases.') 


A  TRAGEDY.  179 


OLIVER. 

Mercy,  how't  rains  ! 

CALAYNOS. 

Ay,  ay,  alike  on  all. 

Dost  think  poor  Alda  feels  this  bitter  storm, 
Homeless  and  friendless,  without  cloak  or  food  ? 

OLIVER. 
Perchance — (A  groan.)     Didst  hear  1 

CALAYNOS. 

Methought  I  heard  a  sound, 

Like  the  weak  moan  of  a  sick,  restless  child. 

[Another  groan. 

OLIVER. 

And  there  again!  It  comes  from  'neath  yon  window. 

CALAYNOS. 

Look  out  and  see. 

OLIVER.   (Looking  out.} 

I  saw,  by  the  last  flash, 
A  huddled  form  that  cowered  against  the  wall. 


180  CALAYNOS. 

Perchance,  some  helpless  child  has  lost  its  way, 
And  cannot  find  the  gate. 

CALAYNOS. 

Go  bring  it  in  : 

No  beast  should  suffer  on  a  night  like  this. 

[Exit  OLIVER. 

(Goes  to  the  casement.') 

Ay,  shake  your  fiery  tresses,  dusky  clouds ; 
I  have  resolved — ye  cannot  move  rny  mind  ! 
Ye'll  spare  me  for  this  act — ye  love  a  crime ; 
Or  long  ago  ye'd  scathed  that  viper's  skin. — 
Three  days  from  this  he  dies,  and  by  my  han.d. 

(Thunder.') 

Roar  on,  roar  on !     I'll  plunge  my  arm  in  blood 
Up  to  the  elbow — he  shall  bellow  too  ! 
Poor  Alda,  whither  roamest  thou,  sad  wretch, 
Without  a  home  or  comfort  ? — Spare  her,  heaven  ! 
For  thou  canst  soften  tempests  to  a  breath, 
To  succour  the  shorn  lamb — O,  she  is  shorn ! 
(Re-enter  OLIVER,  with  servants  bearing  Do5?A  ALDA  on  a  couch.} 


A  TRAGEDY.  181 

OLIVER. 

She  has  not  long  to  live : — I  brought  her  here. 

CALAYNOS. 

Brought  whom  1 

OLIVER. 

The  lady  Alda. 

CALAYNOS. 

Gracious  heaven ! 

Why  I  am  passion's  plaything. — Shall  I  rave  ?— 
Shall  I  grow  drunk  on  grief,  and  fire  the  house?— 
Or  what  most  desperate  and  headlong  act 
Hast  Thou  reserved  for  me  ?     I'm  ready — speak  ! 
Say  anything  ;  but  let  me  do,  not  think  ; 
For  I  with  thought  grow  mad  ! 

OLIVER. 

Look  on  her,  sir. 

CALAYNOS. 

I  cannot. 

OLIVER. 

Look  ;  more  harmless  thing  ne'er  lived. 
16* 


182  CA.LAYNOS. 

Ah,  she  is  very  still,  and  cold,  and  pale  ; 
Scarce  a  pulse  flutters ;  she  is  near  run  down ; 
The  balance  of  her  body  hardly  beats  : 
Another  move,  then  follows  endless  rest. 

CALAYNOS.  * 

Endless  !  Stand  here ;  I'll  look  at  her  once  more. 

{Approaches  the  couch.') 
Poor  wretch,  poor  wretch,  why  grief  hath  rubbed 

thee  sore ! 

I  see  its  marks  upon  thy  once  smooth  brow ; 
And  it  has  crept  among  thy  tangled  hair, 
To  nestle  in  its  silk.     Sad  mark  of  wo, 
I'll  not  believe  thy  guilt ;  'twas  not  thy  fault ; 
That  villain  Luis,  by  some  hell-hatched  lie, 
Drove  thee  past  reason.     Thou  hast  a  tale,  shut  up 
Within  the  hollow  chamber  of  thy  breast, 
To  make  avenging  falchions  bristle  earth ; 
Thou  could'st  urge  stony  death  to  mend  his  pace, 
And  strike  the  monster  ere  his  day.     She  moves. 
Go  to  her,  Oliver;  I  cannot  stay. 


A   TRAGEDY.  183 

Perchance,  she'd   speak,  yet  has  short   time   for 
words. 

DONA   ALDA. 

Calaynos. 

OLIVER. 

Hark  !  she  calls  thee,  sir. 

CALAYNOS. 

Go,  go ! 

OLIVER. 

Lady,  I'm  here. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Nay,  nay,  deceive  me  not. 
I  saw  a  pitying  face  bent  over  me, 
And  it  was  his.     Thou'rt  Oliver.     O,  sir, 
If  thou  hast  trace  of  feeling  in  thy  nature, 
Pray  bring  him  here.    I'm  weak,  and  ill,  and  fallen: 
He  would  not  come  for  me ;  for  he  is  proud, 
And  I  have  wronged  him  to  the  depths  of  wrong — 
Not  all  myself;  but  yet  he  thinks  'twas  I. — 
Go,  ere  I  die,  in  mercy  go,  kind  sir. 


184  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS.   (Rushing  to  her.) 
Alda! 

DONA  ALDA. 

Break  heart !    I  arn  content  to  die. 

CALAYNOS. 

0  live,  O  live !  I  will  forgive  thee  all. — 

1  will  heap  kindness  on  thee,  till  its  top 

Shall  knock  at  heaven.     We  will  be  friends,  true 

friends  ; 

If  not  my  wife,  thou  shall  be  dearer  far. — 
If  any  here  shall  dare  to  mock  at  thee, 
I'll  hang  them  from  the  walls,  to  scare  the  wind. — 
I'll  guard  thee,  like  a  tiger  !     If  the  world 
Should  choose  to  sneer,  why  love,  we'll  laugh  at  it; 
Or,  if  thou  lik'st,  I'll  ravage  half  of  Spain. — 
Yes,  I'll  do  anything  ;  but  live,  O  live! 
For  I  can  swear  thou'rt  guiltless.     Tell  me  all. 

DONA  ALDA. 

0  god-like  man,  thy  speech  surpasses  hope ; 

1  had  not  looked  for  this  from  even  thee ; 


A  TRAGEDY.  185 

I  only  wished  to  crawl  to  thee  and  die : 
For  I  have  shamed  thee  'fore  the  face  of  man, 
I've  made  thy  name  a  sneer  and  mockery ; 
And  fools  may  spit  their  slander  on  thy  fame, 
To  gall  thy  pride,  and  shake  thy  glorious  mind. 

0  fie,  O  fie !  that  I  should  do  this  act — 

This  act  beneath  pollution !     Why  not  curse  1 — 
Why  not  call  vengeance  on  my  head,  like  rain? — 
Why  dost  not  spurn  me  1     Why  not  cast  me  forth, 
To  rot  with  kindred  filth,  in  some  foul  place, 
Where  my  rank  guilt  will  not  offend  thy  sense  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Alda! 

DONA  ALDA. 

It  would  be  just :  and  I  supposed, 
When  I  set  forth  to  view  thy  face  once  more, 
That  grooms  would  drive  me  from  thy  gates  with 

whips ; 

» 
For  well  I  knew  my  guilt  deserved  no  less : — 

1  sat  in  judgment  on  it,  all  alone, 

And  that  the  fiat  which  my  conscience  gave. 


186 


CALAYNOS. 


CALAYNOS. 

Speak  not  of  this ;  thou  dost  o'erstrain  thy  guilt ; 
Let  me  not  doubt  thee,  in  this  solemn  hour. 
Tell  me  thy  story ;  for  I  think  thee  wronged. 

DONA  ALDA. 

Yes,  foully  wronged  ;  but  half  the  fault  my  own. — 
There  is  a  packet,  hidden  in  my  breast, 
Which  holds  the  truthful  story  of  my  crime  ; 
For  thee  'twas  writ,  ere  I  resolved  to  come. 
Thou'lt  spare  the  shame  of  telling  thee  this  thing ; 
'Twould  bring  a  flush  upon  the  face  of  death, 
And  drive  thee  from  thy  firmness.  When  I'm  dead, 
Tear  forth  the  dreadful  secret. — O,  my  lord  ! — 

CALAYNOS. 

What  would'st  thou,  Alda  ? — Cheer  ihee,  love,  bear 
up  ! 

DONA  ALDA. 

• 

Thy  face  is  dim,  I  cannot  see  thine  eyes : 

Nay,  hide  them  not ;  they  are  my  guiding  stars — 

Have  sorrow's  drops  thus  blotted  out  their  light  ? 


A  TRAGEDY.  187 

Thou  dost  forgive  me,  love — thou'lt  think  of  me  1 
Thou'lt  not  speak   harshly,  when  I'm  'neath  the 

earth  ? — 
Thou'lt  love  my  memory,  for  what  once  I  was  ? 

CALAYNOS. 
Yes,  though  I  live  till  doom. 

DONA  ALDA. 

O,  happiness  ! 

Come  closer — this  thy  hand  1  Have  mercy,  heaven  ! 
Yes,  press  me  closer — close — I  do  not  feel. — 

CALAYNOS. 

O,  God  of  mercy,  spare  ! 

DONA  ALDA. 

A  sunny  day — 
Oh  !—  (She  faints.} 

CALAYNOS. 

Bear  her  in — I  am  as  calm  as  ice. 
Come  when  she  wakes — I  cannot  see  her  thus. 
(Exeunt  OLIVER  and  servants,  bearing  DONA  ALDA.) 
'Tis  better  so  ; — but  then  the  thoughts  come  back 


188  CALAYNOS. 

Of  the  young  bride  I  welcomed  at  the  gate. — 
I  kissed  her,  yes,  I  kissed  her — was  it  there  1 
Yes,  yes,  I  kissed  her  there,  and  in  the  chapel — 
The  dimly  lighted  chapel. — I  see  it  all ! 
Here  was  old  Hubert,  there  stood  Oliver — 
The   priest,  the   bridesmaids,  groomsmen  —  every 

face; 

All  the  retainers  that  around  us  thronged, 
Smiling  for  joy,  with  ribands  in  their  caps. — 
And  shall  they  all,  all  follow  her  black  pall, 
With  weeping  eyes  and  doleful,  sullen  weeds'? 
For  they  all  love  her : — O,  she  was  so  kind, 
So  kind  and  gentle,  when  they  stood  in  need ; 
And  never  checked  them,  if  they  murmured  at  her, 
But  found  excuses  for  their  discontent. — 
They'll  miss  her :  for  her  path  was  like  an  angel's, 
And  every  place  seemed  holier  where  she  came. 
Ah  me,  ah  me !  I  would  this  life  were  past ! 
Stay,  love,  watch  o'er  me ;  I  will  join  ihee  soon. 

( A  cry  within.} 
So  quickly  gone  !  And  ere  I  said  farewell ! 

(Rushes  to  the  door.} 


A  TRAGEDY.  189 

(Re-enter  OLIVER.) 

OLIVER. 
My  lord — 

CALAYNOS. 

Yes,  yes,  she's  dead — I  will  go  in.     [Exit. 

OLIVER. 

0,  dreadful  ending  to  a  fearful  night ! 
This  shock  has  shattered  to  the  very  root 

The  strength  of  his  great  spirit.     Mournful  night ! 
And  what  will  day  bring  forth?— but  wo  on  wo. 
Ah,  death  may  rest  awhile,  and  hold  his  hand, 
Having  destroyed  this  wondrous  paragon, 
And  sapped  a  mind,  whose  lightest  thought  was 

worth 

The  concentrated  being  of  a  herd. 
Yet  shall  the  villain  live  who  wrought  this  wo  ? — 
By  heaven  I  swear,  if  my  lord  kill  him  not, 

1,  though  a  scholar  and  unused  to  arms, 

Will  hunt  him  down — ay,  should  he  course  the  earth, 

And  slay  him  like  a  felon  ! 
17 


190  CALAYNOS. 

If  this  is  sin,  let  fiends  snap  at  my  soul, 
But  I  will  do  it !     Lo,  where  comes  my  lord, 
Bent  down  and  withered,  like  a  broken  tree, 
Prostrate  with  too  much  bearing. 

(Re-enter  CALAYNOS.) 

CALAYNOS. 

Oliver, 

I  stole  to  see  her ;  not  a  soul  was  there, 
Save  an  old  crone  that  hummed  a  doleful  tune, 
And  winked  her  purblind  eyes,  o'errun  with  tears. 
O,  boy,  I  never  knew  I  loved  her  so ! 

• 

I  held  my  breath,  and  gazed  into  her  face — 
Ah,  she  was  wondrous  fair.     She  seemed  to  me, 
Just  as  I've  often  seen  her,  fast  asleep, 
When  from  my  studies  cautiously  I've  stole, 
And  bent  above  her,  and  drank  up  her  breath, 
Sweet  as  a  sleeping  infant's. — Then  perchance, 
Yet  in  her  sleep,  her  starry  eyes  would  ope, 
To  close  again  behind  their  fringy  clouds, 
Ere  I  caught  half  their  glory.     There's  no  breath, 


A   TRAGEDY.  191 

There's  not  a  perfume  on  her  withered  lips, 
Her  eyes  ope  not,  nor  ever  will  again. — 
But  tell  me  how  she  died. — She  suffered  not  ? 

OLIVER. 

She  scarcely  woke  from  her  first  fainting  here ; 
Or  if  she  did,  she  gave  no  sign  nor  word. 
Awhile  she  muttered,  as  if  lost  in  prayer; 
Some  who  stood  close  thought  once  they  caught 

thy  name; 

But  grief  had  dulled  my  sense,  I  could  not  hear. 
Then  she  slid  gently  to  a  lethargy ; 
And  so  she  died — we  knew  not  when  she  went. 

CALAYNOS. 

Here  is  the  paper  which  contains  her  story : 

I  fain  would  clear  her  name,  fain  think  her  wronged. 

(Reads.} 

O,  double  dealing  villain  !— Moor — bought  her  ! 
Impious  monster — false  beyond  belief ! 
But  she  is  guiltless — hear'st  thou,  Oliver  ? 
Nay,  read  ;  I  cannot  move  thee  as  she  can. 

[OLIVER  reads. 


192  CALAYNOS. 

He  called  me  Moor. — True,  true,  I  did  her  wrong : 
The  sin  is  mine ;  I  should  have  told  her  that. 
I  only  kept  it  back  to  save  her  pain ; 
I  feared  to  lose  respect  by  telling  her. 
I  see  how  he  could  heighten  that  grave  wrong, 
And  spur  her  nigh  to  madness  with  his  taunts. 
She  fell,  was  senseless,  without  life  or  reason — 
Why  tigers  spare  inanimated  forms — 
So  bore  her  off.     Then  lie  on  lie — O  base  ! 
The  guilt  all  mine.     Why  did  I  hide  my  birth  ? 
Ah,  who  can  tell  how  soon  one  seed  of  sin, 
Which  we  short-sighted  mortals  think  destroyed, 
May  sprout  and  bear,  and  shake  its  noxious  fruit 
Upon  our  heads,  when  we  ne'er  dream  of  ill ; 
For  nought  that  is  can  ever  pass  away  ! 

OLIVER. 
And  shall  this  villain  live  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

No,  no,  by  heaven  ! 
Those  fellows  on  the  wall  would  haunt  me  then. — 


A  TRAGEDY.  193 

I  hear  your  voices,  men  of  crime  and  blood, 
Ring  in  mine  ears,  and  I  obey  the  call. 
(Snatches  a  sword  from  the  wall.') 
How  precious  is  the  blade  which  justice  wields, 
To  chasten  wrong,  or  set  a  wrong  to  right! 

(Draws.) 

Come  forth,  thou  minister  of  bloody  deeds, 
That  blazed  a  comet  in  the  van  of  war, 
Presaging  death  to  man,  and  tears  to  earth. — 
Pale,  gleaming  tempter,  when  I  clutch  thee  thus, 
Thou,  of  thyself,  dost  plead  that  murder's  right, 
And  mak'st  me  half  believe  it  luxury. 
Thy  horrid  edge  is  thirsting  for  man's  gore, 
And  thou  shall  drink  it  from  the  point  to  hilt. — 
To  horse,  to  horse  !  the  warrior  blood  is  up ; 
The  tiger  spirit  of  my  warlike  race 
Burns  in  my  heart,  and  floods  my  kindling  veins. — 
Mount,  Oliver,  ere  pity's  hand  can  hide 
The  bloody  mist  that  floats  before  mine  eyes — 

To  horse,  to  horse  !  the  Moor  rides  forth  to  slay  ! 

[Exeunt. 

17* 


194  CALAYNOS. 


SCENE  II. 

A  street  in  Seville.     Enter  DON  MIGUEL  and  DON  LOPEZ. 
meeting. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Whither  so  fast,  Don  Miguel  ? 

DON  MIGUEL. 

To  Don  Luis. 

He  gives  a  feast  on  this  his  natal  day — 
Are  you  not  going  1     For  a  modern  feast, 
The  thing  will  be  as  well  as  they  know  how. 
Would  the  old  times  might  come  to  us  again ! 
When  men  drank  sherry  from  a  two-quart  cup. 
Pshaw!  if  I  had  my  way,  I'd  turn  time  back  : 
Why  things  grow  worse  for  every  day  we  live. 
Now  if  I  drank  at  this  same  scurvy  feast, 
As  we  of  old  could  drink  without  a  thought, 
The    weak-brained   boys   would   point   their   silly 

thumbs, 
And  ask  their  host,  if  there  the  devil  dined '? 


A  TRAGEDY.  195 

Plague  on  these  times  !     Give  me  the  jolly  days 
When  men  held  mighty  flagons  in  one  hand, 
And  with  the  other  grasped  their  mightier  swords — 
None  of  your  toasting-forks ;  a  true  Toledo, 
Edged  at  each  side,  and  pointed  like  a  spear ; 
Why   bah !    these   boys   could    scarcely  lift   such 

blades : 
Those  were  the  glorious  days  of  wine  and  war ! 

DON   LOPEZ. 

May  all  you  giants  live  to  drink  a  tun; 
But  pardon  me  about  the  rapier,  sir. 

DON  MIGUEL. 

O  yes,  you'll  talk  of  skill,  and  all  that  thing; 
But  'twas  more  skill  to  'scape  a  swashing  blow, 
Than  all  your  thrusts,  and  tierces,  and  such  trash. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

What  a  cursed  shame,  to  mince  a  man  to  death — 
To  chop  him  into  slices,  break  his  bones, 
When  a  most  gentle  and  well-mannered  thrust 
Would  do  as  well — 


196  CALAYNOS. 

DON  MIGUEL. 

To  skewer  him,  like  a  fowl, 
To  puncture  him,  to  make  him  die  of  pin  stabs : 
'Tis  like  the  death  that  poor  Duns  Scotus  died, 
Slaughtered  with  pen-knives. 

DON  LOPEZ. 
Did  you  hear  the  news? 

DON  MIGUEL. 

Whatever's  new  is  worse  than  last. — What  is  it '? 

DON  LOPEZ. 

The  great  Calaynos  is  again  in  town. 
He  came  with  such  a  pomp  of  retinue, 
With  such  barbaric  wealth,  such  trains  of  men- 
All  clothed  like  paynims  of  the  ancient  day — 
That  wide-mouthed    burghers   thought   Granada's 

peers 
Had  scaled  their  graves,  to  fight  for  Spain  once 

more. 

DON  MIGUEL. 

Ay,  ay,  what  would  your  modern  heroes  do 


A  TRAGEDY.  197 

If  this  were  true,  and  all  the  Moors  had  risen ; 
Headed  by  that  Calaynos,  who  one  day 
Rode  post  to  France,  to  crop  the  Paladins, 
Just  for  mere  love?   They'd  drive  you  in  the  sea — 
'Sblood!  but  they'd  make  you  caper! 
DON  LOPEZ. 

This  one,  sir, 

Is  greater  far  than  he  of  ballad  note : 
A  braver  man  ne'er  buckled  on  a  blade ; 
And  then  so  generous  and  polite  withal. 

DON  MIGUEL. 

You  should  have  known  his  grandsire,  as  I  did. 
His  was  a  blade  would  tire  your  hip  to  bear, 
E'en  in  its  baldric  :  and  he  swung  it  so  ! 
Just  as  a  child  would  waft  about  a  feather. — 
Here  was  a  drinker  for  you. — By  the  gods ! 
A  man  like  him  can  never  come  again ; 
Earth  is  too  base  for  such.     Ah,  he  was  slain, 
Stabbed  by  an  upstart  coward,  o'er  his  wine. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Methinks  his  drinking  came  to  sorry  ends. 


198  CALAYNOS. 

DON   MIGUEL. 

'Twas  not  his  drink  ;  'twas  a  cursed  rapier,  sir, 
Pinned  him  across  the  table. — 'Sblood,  my  life! 
A  manly  blade  had  blushed  at  such  an  act. 
Adieu,  sir;  I  must  leave  you. — Pshaw!  what  times! 

[Exit. 

DON  LOPEZ, 

Adieu,  you  drunken  dotard  !    Who  comes  here '( 

(Enter  CALAYNOS.) 
My  lord  Calaynos,  if  I  know  your  face  ? 

OALAYNOS. 

Don  Lopez — am  T  right? 

DON   LOPEZ. 

Your  servant,  sir. 

CALAYNOS. 

Are  you  sincere? 

DON  LOPEZ. 

My  heart  cries  shame  on  words. 

CALAYNOS. 

Then  vou  can  do  me  service  'bove  all  thanks. 


A  TRAGEDY.  19!) 

There  is  a  man  who  wronged  me  in  Seville, 
And  I  would  kill  him. — Do  you  understand  'I 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Write  out  the  cartel — 'tis  a  pleasure,  sir. 

CALAYNOS. 

That  have  I  done  long  since ;  an  hour  ago 
I  sent  it  by  my  secretary, 

DON   LOPEZ. 

Heavens  ! 

My  lord,  that  act  is  out  of  every  form. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  this ;  'tis  next  to  murder. 

CALAYNOS. 

Friend,  fear  not  that ;  you  can  escape  the  law. 
Last  night  I  made  my  will,  and  there  I  left, 
To  whom  might  be  my  second,  gold  enough 
To  build  yon  palace.     'Tis  but  just  I  shield 
Him  whom  my  deeds  involve. — What  say  you,  sir  f 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Nay,  for  the  love  I  bear  you,  I  will  do  it. 
How  ran  the  challenge  ? 


200  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

What  can  that  import  ? 
Defiance  to  the  death  ran  through  each  word. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Such  savage  terms  are  out  of  date  and  harsh. 

Now  I  had  written  a  most  gentle  billet — 

As — senior  So-and-so  requests  the  length 

Of  my  lord  So-and-so's  best  tempered  blade  ; 

Or  any  hint,  polite  and  delicate, 

Like  that. — Believe  me,  sir,  a  gentleman 

May  show  much  blood  in  wording  of  a  challenge. 

CALAYNOS. 

So  I  must  bow  my  opposite  to  death, 

Must  kill  by  line  and  plummet,  to  'scape  blame  ; — 

Sir,  I'm  above  polite  hypocrisy. 

DON  LOPEZ. 
Well,  as  you  please. — What  is  your  rapier's  length  1 

CALAYNOS. 

Here  is  rny  sword. 

(Gives  his  sword.) 


A  TRACED*.  201 

DON  LOPEZ. 

'Tis  a  most  worthy  blade  ; 
But  near  an  inch  too  short ;  and  next  the  hilt — 
Just  here,  my  lord,  an  eighth  or  so  too  broad, 
And  nigh  a  pound  too  heavy.     Yet  for  all, 
A  worthy  blade,  though  somewhat  out  of  fashion. 
A  true  Toledo,  if  Fm  not  mistaken  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Not  so  :  no  man  can  tell  its  origin  ; 

But  divers  quaint  and  wondrous  legends  hang 

Their  superstitions  on  this  mystic  steel. 

Some  say  that  'mid  the  globe's  eternal  fires, 

The  labouring  gnomes,  with  many  an  impious  spell, 

That  made  earth  shake  and  stagger  from  her  orbit, 

Tempered  and  forged  the  metal  of  this  blade. 

DON  LOPEZ. 
A  wondrous  tale,  more  wonderful  if  true. 

x    CALAYNOS. 

I  cannot  vouch  it. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Ah,  I  nigh  forgot — 

Whom  do  we  fight  1 

18 


202  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

Don  Luis,  sir. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Don  Death ! 

My  lord,  the  man's  a  practised  duellist; 
Has  killed  more  scores  than  I  have  met  in  fight. 
He'll  name  his  thrusts,  before  he  strikes  a  blow, 
And  put  them  home,  despite  your  wariest  skill. 
Then    there's    his    trick,  a    sleight   he    caught    in 

France — 
Thus,  thus — (Passes') — the  shrewdest  thrust  beneath 

the  guard ; 
'Tis  fatal  as  the  plague. 

CALAYNOS. 

I  came  not,  sir, 
To  hold  debate  on  blades. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

You  came,  my  lord, 

To  hold  debate  on  death ;  and  a  good  blade 
Is  sometimes  pertinent. 


A  TRAGEDY.  203 

CALAYNOS. 

Enough  of  this. 
We  fight  within  an  hour — you'll  find  me  here. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Your  servant,  sir. — Adieu.  [Exit. 

CALAYNOS. 

They're  all  the  same, 

These  grinning  courtiers,  all  smiles  and  bows, 
All  rules  and  etiquette.     Such  are  the  men 
Who  have  our  monarch's  ear,  and  guide  his  councils. 

{Enter  OLIVER.) 
How  sad  you  look. — Did  you  not  find  Don  Luis  ? 

OLIVER. 

Ah  yes,  my  lord,  I  found  him  at  a  feast, 
Drinking  and  roaring,  'mid  the  wealth  you  gave. 
He  spied  me  out,  and  in  politest  terms 
Inquired  your  lordship's  health.    Then  turned  again, 
And  of  my  lady  asked  with  blandest  voice  : 
No  feature  moved  when  I  proclaimed  her  dead. 
With  that  he  rose  and,  smiling  towards  his  friends, 
Proposed  your  lordship's  health.   'Twas  not  in  fear, 


204  CALAYNOS. 

But  at  the  act  I  shook,  and  my  chilled  blood 
Crawled  coldly  backward  on  its  quivering  source, 
To  see  such  baseness  lodged  in  human  form. 
I  flung  your  challenge  in  the  monster's  face, 
And  came  to  seek  you  here. 

CALAYNOS. 

The  mocking  villain  ! — Well,  well,  let  that  go. 
I'm  near  to  death,  or  I  should  hate  mankind. 

OLIVER. 
O,  say  not  so ;  there  may  be  days  of  peace — 

CALAYNOS. 

His  sword  will  not  rob  life  of  many  hours. 
When  I  left  home  I  felt  I'd  ne'er  return  ; 
All  things  appeared  so  mournful  to  my  view. — 
The  old  trees  shook  their  dark  green  heads  above, 
And  waved  their  branches,  as  if  taking  leave ; 
The  grass  was  bending  with  the  morning  dew, 
And  dropped  its  woful  tribute  as  I  passed ; 
Ay,  and  the  very  flowers,  the  little  flowers 
Turned  on  me  their  soft  eyes  o'errun  with  tears. 
When  we  had  gained  the  pass  between  the  hills, 


A  TRAGEDY.  205 

Whose  windings  shut  my  castle  from  the  sight, 

I  paused  to  take  one  last,  long  look  at  home. — 

Alas,  the  very  castle  seemed  to  move, 

And  beckon  sadly  in  the  flickering  air;  ' 

The  old  gray  turrets  wavered  to  and  fro, 

Nodding  their  hoary  heads,  as  if  in  grief. 

I  could  not  choose  but  weep;  the  man  broke  down, 

And  my  heart  fluttered  like  a  timid  girl's. 

Ah,  since  her  death,  a  cloud  has  crossed  the  earth, 

And  everywhere  I  see  it.     But  thou'lt  return : 

Now  swear  to  me,  if  thou  dost  love  me  yet, 

To  do  what  I  command. 

OLIVER. 
I  swear,  my  lord. 

CALAYNOS. 

Thou  know'st  my  latter  days  have  chiefly  past 
In  patient  labours  of  philosophy ; 
And  from  my  toil,  a  studious  book  was  born, 
Whose  gathered  wisdom  was  designed  for  man — 

Swear  to  destroy  it ! 

18* 


206  CALAYNOS. 

OLIVER. 

Pray  forgive  me  this ; 

I  cannot,  dare  not.     What,  that  mighty  book 
O'er  which  I've  bent  until  the  stars  grew  dim, 
And  morning  caught  me  o'er  the  magic  page ; 
Forgetful  of  my  task,  my  pen  all  dry, 
Enrapt  in  reading  what  I  should  have  copied  ? 
O,  pardon  me,  my  lord;  'twould  be  a  crime 
Worse  than  oath-breaking,  worse  than  blasphemy  ! 

CALAYNOS. 

Didst  love  sweet  Alda,  gentle  Oliver  1 

OLIVER. 
Past  love,  my  lord ;  but  now  I  love  her  more. 

CALAYNOS. 

And   would'st  thou  see  some    scribbler   drag  her 

name, 

Coupled  to  infamy  and  red-cheeked  shame, 
Or  slimed  with  pity  of  a  vulgar  mind, 
Into  the  preface  of  a  book  you  love  1 — 
Would'st  see  her  live  in  misery  immortal ; 


A  TRAGEDY.  207 

Preserved  for  time  to  coldly  comment  on  ? — 

Would'st  have  her  memory,  which  you  hold  so  dear, 

Bandied  about,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  fools  ? 

No,  no,  before  this  bitter  thing  shall  be, 

Let  my  name  perish  from  the  thoughts  of  men. 

OLIVER. 
And  would'st  thou  die  in  very  name,  my  lord  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Only  in  name,  no  further  can  I  die. 

OLIVER. 
We  know  not  that. 

CALAYNOS. 

Know  not !  then  vain  is  knowledge. 
All  nature  cries — Whatever  is  must  be  ! 
Earth's   forms   may  change,  but   time  can   ne'er 

destroy 

The  smallest  atom  in  the  universe  ; 
Much  less  this  life  of  intellect,  the  soul, 
Whose  very  form  is  changeless. — Death  is  not ! 
Serene,  and  calm,  and  indestructible, 


208  CALAYNOS. 


9** 


Above  the  touch  of  chance,  or  sin,  or  time, 
On  these  heaven-scaling  attributes  shall  soar, 
In  infinite  progression  towards  their  source  : — 
In  death  is  knowledge  ! 

OLIVER. 
I  will  do  it,  sir. 

CALAYNOS. 

Enough,  I  shall  die  happy.     Get  thee  hence, 
And  have  my  servants  near  the  meeting  place, 
To  bear  me  from  the  field.     But,  on  their  lives, 
Let  them  not  interfere  till  all  is  o'er ; 
And  should  Don  Luis  kill  me,  let  him  pass. 

OLIVER. 

They  may,  but  I  will  not.  (Aside.}    I'll  see  'tis  done. 

[Exit. 

(Enter  DON  LOPEZ.) 

DON  LOPEZ. 

The  terms  are  all  agreed ;  though,  I  declare, 
I  had  some  trouble  with  that  old  Don  Miguel — 
He  is  Don  Luis'  second.     By  this  light ! 


A  TRAGEDY.  209 

He'd  mounted  you,  with  lances  in  your  hands, 
To  run  a  tilt  like  Quixotes.     Tell  me,  sir, 
Does  the  first  blood  decide  the  combat  o'er  1 

CALAYNOS. 

The  first  death,  sir,  decides  this  combat  o'er. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Of  course,  of  course  ;  but  death  is  out  of  date  : 
'Tis  not  the  way  we  fight  in  these  fair  days: 
Now  gentlemen  may  fight  without  a  scratch. 
I  do  assure  you,  sir,  that  in  a  duel 
Life  is  as  safe  as  if  you  sat  in  church : 
You  have  the  honour  without  fear  of  harm. — 
Will  not  the  first  blood  do  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

I'm  of  a  race 

Who  seldom  drew  a  sword  except  to  kill; 
They  never  bled,  like  leeches,  nor  will  I: 
Death,  and  not  honour,  is  the  thing  I  wish. — 
This  duel,  friend,  did  not  originate 
Prom  treading  on  a  toe  without  excuse. 


210  CALAYNOS. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

'Tis  out  of  date;  but  as  you  please,  my  lord. 
Have  you  e'er  fought  before  1 

CALAYNOS. 

No,  not  of  late : 

But,  in  my  youth,  through  Salamanca's  school 
I  fought  my  way,  and  lost  no  credit  there. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Ah  yes ;  I've  heard,  they  ever  held  your  blade 
The  foremost  steel  in  Salamanca's  walls : 
'Tis  a  good  school. — But  watch  his  French  device — 
The  thrust  beneath  the  guard.     'Tis  nigh  the  time. 

CALAYNOS. 

Then,  sir,  lead  on.     'Tis  ne'er  too  soon  for  me. 

[  Exeunt. 


A  TRAGEDY.  211 


SCENE   III. 

The  fields  near  Seville.     Enter  DON  Luis  and  DON  MIGUEL, 
meeting  CALAYNOS,  DON  LOPEZ  and  OLIVER. 

DON  LOPEZ. 
Stand  here,  my  lord. 

CALAYNOS. 

Let  there  be  no  delay. 

DON  MIGUEL  (to  DON  Luis). 

Stand  here,  my  boy. 

DON  LUIS  (aside). 
He's  ill ;  I'll  kill  him  easily. 
(DoN  LOPEZ  and  DON  MIGUEL  advance.) 

DON  LOPEZ. 
'Tis  a  fine  day,  and  this  a  glorious  ground. 

DON  MIGUEL. 

Yes,  for  a  fight  with  good  old-fashioned  blades. 

DON  LOPEZ. 
Excuse  me,  sir,  but  we  must  follow  custom. 


212 


CALAYNOS. 


DON  MIGUEL. 

Yes,  afar  off. — Here  is  Don  Luis'  skewer. 

[  Gives  the  sword. 

DON  LOPEZ  (measuring'). 

'Tis  full  an  inch  too  long. — I  sent  the  measure — 
There's  no  excuse — they  cannot  fight  to-day. 

DON  MIGUEL. 

What  cares  a  man  against  an  inch  or  two? 
Bah  !  on  your  forms  !    His  grandsire,  in  his  day, 
Had  drawn  his  dagger  'gainst  an  ashen  spear. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

I  have  a  name,  sir,  among  gentlemen, 
Which  I'll  not  hazard  on  so  grave  a  thing. 

OLIVER  (advancing). 

Why  pause  you,  gentlemen  ?     My  lord  is  ill, 
And  loses  strength  by  standing  such  a  time. 

DON  LOPEZ. 
Don  Luis'  blade  is  full  an  inch  too  long. 


A  TRAGEDY.  213 

OLIVER. 

The  murderous  coward  !  (Aside) 

[  Goes  to  CALAYNOS  and  returns. 

Go  on,  gentlemen : 
If  'tis  a  foot  too  long,  my  lord  cares  not. 

DON   MIGUEL. 

Said  like  his  grandsire: — there  the  old  blood  spoke. 

DON  LOPEZ. 


jjwi\    j^umzs* 

Well,  as  he  wills  ;  but  I  again  protest — 
You'll  bear  me  witness,  sir,  before  the  world  1 

DON  MIGUEL. 

Yes,  yes.     Stand  here,  my  friend.        [To  DON  Luis. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Stand  here,  my  lord.   [To  CALAYNOS. 
Draw,  sirs — advance — guard — 

DON  MIGUEL. 

God  defend  the  right ! 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Heavens!  what  queer  phrases  has  this  antique  man! 

[Aside. 

19 


214  CALAYNOS. 

(CALAYNOS  and  DON  Luis  fight.} 
My  man  fights  well. 

DON  MIGUEL. 

He  fights  too  much  for  blood  : 
He'll  catch  a  wound. 

DON   LOPEZ. 

There's  his  French  trick — I  knew  it ! 
(CALAYNOS  is  wounded.") 

LOPEZ   AND  MIGUEL. 

Hold,  gentlemen  ! 

CALAYNOS. 

Stand  back — beware  Calaynos  ! 

DON  MIGUEL. 

Thus  spoke  his  grandsire  when  his  blood  was  up. 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Again ! 

(CALAYNOS  is  wounded.) 

* 

LOPEZ  AND  MIGUEL. 

Hold,  gentlemen — forbear,  forbear  ! 
(They  rush  between.) 


A  TRAGEDY.  215 

DON  LOPEZ. 

Are  you  not  satisfied  ? 

DON  LUIS. 

I  am,  for  one. 

CALAYNOS. 

I  came  to  die,  or  be  that  villain's  death. — 

Stand  from  between  us;  or,  by  heaven's  great  king, 

I'll  make  a  path  across  your  carcasses  ! 

DON  LOPEX. 

Well,  well,  go  on — but  this  is  bloody  work ! 
{They  fight :  CALAYNOS  disarms  DON  Luis.) 

CALAYNOS. 

Turn  dog,  and  fly  ! 

DON  LUIS. 

Not  while  I've  legs  to  stand. 

CALAYNOS. 

Down,  down  and  beg  ! 

DON  LUIS. 

No,  never  to  a  Moor  ! 


216 


CALAYNOS. 


OALAYNOS. 

Ha,  wretch  !    (Kills  DON  Luis.) 

(CALAYNOS  staggers  and  falls.} 

OLIVER. 

My  lord,  you're  wounded. 

CALAYNOS. 

Yes,  to  death. 

Come  nearer,  son — I  have  short  time  to  live. — 
Why  dost  thou  weep  ? 

OLIVER. 
O,  why  do  I  not  die  ? 

CALAYNOS. 

Nay,  nay,  dear  Oliver,  thou'lt  think  of  us — 
Of  poor,  poor  Alda,  arid  her  buried  lord  : 
Thou'lt  come  at  sun-down  o'er  the  dewy  grass, 
And  kneel  beside  us,  and  ihou'lt  pray  for  her. — 
Was   she   not   wronged; — but  pure,    but   pure  as 
heaven  ? 

OLIVER. 

Most  pure,  my  lord. 


A  TRAGEDY.  217 

CALAYNOS. 

O  bless  thee,  for  those  words ! 
Come  close,  my  son :  thou  wert  my  only  friend, 
And  next  to  Alda  in  my  heart  thou^toodst. — 
Wilt  thou  forgive  me  the  harsh  words  I  said, 
For  that  false  man — by  Heaven's  arm  smote,  not 
mine? 

OLIVER. 

0  wo !  O  wo ! — Nay,  nay,  't  was  all  my  fault. 

CALAYNOS. 

Not  so — come  nearer.     Thou  wilt  bury  me 
Next  to  dear  Alda. — Now  sweet  death  draws  on : 

1  feel  his  icy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 
The  gates  of  knowledge  lift  to  let  me  in  — 
Already,  half  the  mystery  of  life 

Rolls  from  my  soul,  like  a  divided  veil ! 
The  secrets  of  the  universe  unclose, 
And  I  am  filled  with  light ! 

OLIVER. 

O,  mighty  soul ! 


218  CALAYNOS. 

CALAYNOS. 

Stand  from  before  me — give  me  air — I  choke. 
Next  Alda — next  my  wife — wife — Oh  !  [/)?>.«. 

OLIVER. 

The  stony  world  may  smile  at  broken  hearts ; 
But  there  lies  one  cracked  to  the  very  core. 
(Enter  Servants,  and  group  round  the  body.) 
Tread  softly — here  is  death  ! 


THE     END. 


